WITHIN 


THOMAS  MOTT  OSBORNE 


[BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL  [FORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

PAUL  TURNER,  U.S.M.C.R. 
KILLED  IN  ACTION,  SAIPAN 
1944 


WITHIN  PRISON  WALLS 


WITHIN 
PRISON  WALLS 


BEING  A  NARRATIVE  OF  PERSONAL 
EXPERIENCE  DURING  A  WEEK  OF 
VOLUNTARY  CONFINEMENT  IN  THE 
STATE  PRISON  AT  AUBURN,  NEW  YORK 


BY 

THOMAS  MOTT  OSBORNE 

(THOMAS  BROWN,  AUBURN  No.  33.333X) 


NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

1928 


COPVRIGHT,  IQ14,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


College 
Library 

HV 

^ 
IV 


THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  IS  DEDICATED  TO 

OUR  BROTHERS  IN  GRAY 

AND  ESPECIALLY  TO  THOSE  WHO,  DURING 
MY  SHORT  STAY  AMONG  THEM  IN  AUBURN 
PRISON,  WON  MY  LASTING  GRATITUDE 
AND  AFFECTION  BY  THEIR  COURTESY, 
SYMPATHY,  AND  UNDERSTANDING 


r 

849563 


CONTENTS 


I.  WHY  I  WENT  TO  PRISON i 

II.  SUNDAY'S  JOURNAL n 

III.  MONDAY  MORNING 24 

IV.  MONDAY  AFTERNOON 41 

V.  THE  FIRST  NIGHT 59 

VI.  TUESDAY  MORNING 70 

VII.  TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING    ....  88 

VIII.  WEDNESDAY  MORNING  AND  AFTERNOON  .     .     .  108 

IX.  WEDNESDAY  EVENING 125 

X.  THURSDAY 138 

XI.  FRIDAY 164 

XII.  SATURDAY 189 

XIII.  A  NIGHT  IN  HELL 207 

XIV.  SUNDAY — THE  END 253 

XV.  Cm  BONO?      . 280 

CHAPTER  THE  LAST. — THE  BEGINNING 314 


vii 


WITHIN  PRISON  WALLS 

CHAPTER   I 

WHY  I   WENT  TO   PRISON 

MANY  years  back,  in  my  early  boyhood,  1 
was  taken  through  Auburn  Prison.  It 
has  always  been  the  main  object  of  in- 
terest in  our  town,  and  I  was  a  small  sized  unit  in 
a  party  of  sightseers.  No  incident  of  childhood 
made  a  more  vivid  impression  upon  me.  The 
dark,  scowling  faces  bent  over  their  tasks;  the 
hideous  striped  clothing,  which  carried  with  it  an 
unexplainable  sense  of  shame;  the  ugly  close 
cropped  heads  and  shaven  faces;  the  horrible  sin- 
uous lines  of  outcast  humanity  crawling  along  in 
the  dreadful  lockstep;  the  whole  thing  aroused 
such  terror  in  my  imagination  that  I  never  recov- 
ered from  the  painful  impression.  All  the  night- 
mares and  evil  dreams  of  my  childhood  centered 
about  the  figure  of  an  escaped  convict.  He  chased 
me  along  dark  streets,  where  I  was  unable  to  run 
fast  or  cry  aloud ;  he  peeked  through  windows  at 
me  as  I  lay  in  bed,  even  after  the  shades  had  been 

i 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

pinned  close  to  escape  his  evil  eye ;  as  I  ascended  a 
flight  of  stairs  in  dreamland  and  looked  back,  he 
would  come  creeping  through  an  open  door,  hold- 
ing a  long  knife  in  his  hand,  while  my  mother  all 
unconscious  of  danger  sat  reading  under  the 
shaded  library  lamp;  he  was  a  visitor  frequent 
enough  to  make  night  hideous  for  a  time,  and  it 
was  many  long  years  before  he  took  a  departure 
which  I  trust  is  final. 

After  this  early  experience  I  carefully  avoided 
the  Prison.  Its  gray  stone  walls  frowned  from 
across  the  street  every  time  I  departed  or  arrived 
on  a  New  York  Central  train,  but  I  made  no  ef- 
fort to  go  again  inside.  In  fact  I  persistently  re- 
fused to  join  my  friends  whenever  they  made  a 
visit  there ;  once  had  been  quite  enough. 

So  it  was  not  until  many  years  afterward  that  I 
again  passed  within  prison  walls.  Then  my  official 
connection  with  the  Junior  Republic  and  its  suc- 
cessful training  of  wild  and  mischievous  boys 
brought  me  in  touch  with  the  Prison  System.  I 
had  been  interested  in  the  Elmira  Reformatory 
and  had  visited  Mr.  Brockway,  the  superintendent 
of  that  institution.  I  became  acquainted,  quite  by 
chance,  with  a  certain  prisoner  in  Sing  Sing,  and 
through  him  interested  in  other  prisoners,  there 
and  in  Auburn.  In  due  time,  I  began  to  appreciate 
the  importance  of  the  general  Prison  Problem  and 
the  difficulties  of  its  solution.  Also  I  felt  that  my 

2 


WHY    I    WENT   TO    PRISON 

experience  in  the  Junior  Republic  had  given  me  a 
possible  clew  to  that  solution. 

Thus  I  was  drawn  to  the  prison  almost  in  spite 
of  myself;  and,  becoming  more  and  more  inter- 
ested, I  felt  that  there  was  great  need  of  some 
one's  making  a  study  at  first  hand — some  one 
sympathetic  but  not  sentimental — of  the  thoughts 
and  habits  of  the  men  whom  the  state  holds  in 
confinement.  It  is  easy  to  read  a  textbook  on  civil 
government  and  then  fancy  we  know  exactly  how 
the  administration  of  a  state  is  conducted;  but  the 
actual  facts  of  practical  politics  are  often  miles 
asunder  from  the  textbook  theory.  In  the  same 
way  "the  Criminal"  has  been  extensively  studied, 
and  deductions  as  to  his  instincts,  habits  and  char- 
acter drawn  from  the  measurements  of  his  ears 
and  nose ;  but  I  wanted  to  get  acquainted  with  the 
man  himself,  the  man  behind  the  statistics. 

So  the  idea  of  some  day  entering  prison  and 
actually  living  the  life  of  a  convict  first  occurred 
to  me  more  than  three  years  ago.  Talking  with 
a  friend,  after  his  release  from  prison,  concern- 
ing his  own  experience  and  the  need  of  changes 
in  the  System,  I  brought  forward  the  idea  that  it 
was  impossible  for  those  of  us  on  the  outside  to 
deal  in  full  sympathy  and  understanding  with  the 
man  within  the  walls  until  we  had  come  in  close 
personal  contact  with  him,  and  had  had  something 
like  a  physical  experience  of  similar  conditions. 
We  discussed  how  the  thing  could  be  done  in  case 

3 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

the  circumstances  ever  came  about  so  that  it  would 
become  desirable  for  me  to  do  it.  He  agreed  as 
to  the  general  proposition;  but  nevertheless  shook 
his  head  somewhat  doubtfully.  "There  is  no 
question  but  that  you'd  learn  a  lot,"  he  said;  then 
added,  "but  I  think  you'd  find  it  rather  a  tough 
experience."  He  made  the  suggestion  that  if  ever 
the  plan  were  carried  out  autumn  would  be  the 
best  season,  as  the  cells  would  be  least  uncomfor- 
table at  that  time  of  year. 

Time  passed,  and  while  I  continued  to  have  an 
interest  in  the  Prison  Problem,  the  interest  was  a 
passive  rather  than  an  active  one.  Then  on  a 
red-letter  day  in  the  summer  of  1912,  being  con- 
fined to  the  house  by  a  slight  illness,  I  read  Donald 
Lowrie's  book,  "My  Life  in  Prison."  That  vivid 
picture  of  prison  conditions,  written  so  simply  yet 
with  such  power  and  such  complete  and  evident 
sincerity,  stirred  me  to  the  depths.  It  made  me 
feel  that  I  had  no  right  any  longer  to  be  silent  or 
indifferent;  I  must  do  my  share  to  remove  the 
foulest  blot  upon  our  social  system. 

Thereafter  when  called  upon  to  speak  in  public, 
I  usually  made  Prison  Reform  the  subject  of  my 
talk,  advancing  certain  ideas  gathered  from  my 
experience  with  the  boys  of  the  Junior  Republic, 
endeavoring  not  only  to  crystalize  my  own  views 
as  to  the  prisons  but  to  get  others  to  turn  their 
thoughts  in  the  same  direction. 

4 


WHY    I   WENT   TO    PRISON 

Finally  came  an  appointment  by  Governor  Sul- 
zer  to  a  State  Commission  on  Prison  Reform, 
suggested  to  the  Governor  by  Judge  Riley,  the 
new  Superintendent  of  Prisons.  My  position  as 
chairman  of  the  Commission  made  it  seem  desir- 
able, if  not  necessary,  to  inform  myself  to  the  ut- 
most as  to  the  inner  conditions  of  the  prisons  and 
the  needs  of  the  inmates.  I  do  not  mean  that  it 
was  necessary  to  reinvestigate  the  material  aspect 
of  the  prisons — it  is  known  already  that  the  con- 
ditions at  Sing  Sing  are  barbaric,  and  those  at 
Auburn  medieval — but  that  it  was  desirable  to 
get  all  possible  light  regarding  the  actual  effect 
of  the  System  as  a  whole,  or  specific  parts  of  it, 
upon  the  prisoners. 

I  began  to  feel,  therefore,  that  the  time  had 
come  to  carry  out  the  plan  which  had  been  so  long 
in  the  background  of  my  mind.  I  discussed  it 
long  and  earnestly  with  a  certain  dear  friend,  who 
gave  me  needed  encouragement;  the  Superinten- 
dent of  Prisons  and  the  Warden  at  Auburn  ap- 
proved ;  and,  last  but  not  least,  an  intelligent  con- 
vict in  whom  I  confided  thought  it  a  decidedly 
good  idea.  None  of  us,  to  be  sure,  realized  the 
way  in  which  the  thing  was  actually  to  work  out. 
It  became  a  much  more  vital  and  far-reaching 
experiment  than  we  had  any  of  us  expected  or 
could  have  dared  to  hope.  We  were  not  pre- 
pared for  the  way  in  which  the  imaginations  of 

5 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

many  people,  both  in  and  out  of  prison,  were  to 
be  touched  and  stimulated. 

Originally  I  had  intended  to  enter  the  prison 
in  disguise.  In  that  way  I  thought  one  could  learn 
the  most,  as  one  would  stand  a  much  better  chance 
of  seeing  the  System  in  its  normal  working  order. 
Upon  mature  reflection,  however,  this  idea  was 
given  up.  The  Warden  felt  strongly  that  there 
would  be  danger  of  the  best  possible  disguise  be- 
ing penetrated  where  so  many  pairs  of  sharp  eyes 
were  on  the  watch ;  and  I  agreed  with  him  that  in 
such  event  I  could  not  avoid  being  set  down  as  a 
spy  by  both  officers  and  prisoners,  and  my  real 
object  fatally  misunderstood.  The  little  addi- 
tional knowledge  I  might  secure  by  being  unknown 
would  not  pay  for  the  danger  of  complete  failure. 
In  this  conclusion  the  intelligent  convict  joined, 
for  he  had  pointed  out  from  the  first  that,  while 
there  were  certain  obvious  disadvantages  in  being 
known,  yet  there  were  also  certain  advantages 
great  enough  to  more  than  counterbalance.  He 
said  that  if  I  could  spare  two  months  for  the  visit 
it  would  be  better  to  come  disguised,  but  that  it 
would  certainly  take  as  long  as  that  to  get  into 
the  game.  "You  know  we're  awful  suspicious," 
he  added,  by  way  of  explanation;  "and  we  don't 
open  up  to  any  new  fellow  until  we  know  he's  on 
the  level."  He  maintained  therefore  that,  hav- 
ing only  a  week,  I  had  much  better  make  no 
secret  of  it,  but  come  in  my  own  person.  His  view 

6 


WHY    I    WENT   TO    PRISON 

was  confirmed  by  the  event.  I  not  only  learned 
far  more  than  if  I  had  been  unknown,  but  I  so 
gained  the  confidence  of  the  prisoners  that  man} 
of  them  have  become  my  devoted  and  valued 
friends. 

The  account  in  the  following  chapters  of  my 
week  in  Auburn  Prison  is  taken  from  the  pages  of 
a  journal  I  kept  during  my  confinement.  In  that 
I  jotted  down,  day  by  day,  every  incident  no  mat- 
ter how  trivial  it  seemed  at  the  time;  so  that  I 
possess  a  very  complete  record  of  my  week  in 
prison. 

As  I  have  transcribed  the  pages  of  the  diary  I 
have  lived  over  again  every  moment  of  that  re- 
markably vivid  experience,  finding  that  almost 
every  act,  every  word,  every  detail,  is  fairly 
burned  into  my  memory.  I  have  scarcely  needed 
the  pages  of  the  journal,  nor  the  long  account  of 
our  week  together  which  my  working  partner  in 
the  basket  shop,  Jack  Murphy,  wrote  out  at  my 
request. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  draw  up  any  bill  of  in- 
dictment against  the  Prison  System,  or  to  suggest 
specific  improvements,  either  in  general  principles 
or  administrative  details;  I  shall  simply  set  down 
the  facts  and  my  feelings  as  accurately  as  I  can. 

One  final  word  by  way  of  introduction.  Many 
newspapers,  presumably  reflecting  the  impressions 

7 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

of  a  considerable  number  of  individuals,  have 
expressed  the  idea  that  nothing  of  value  could 
possibly  have  been  obtained  because  I  was  not  a 
real  convict ;  although  the  same  newspapers  would 
probably  be  the  first  to  discredit  any  statements 
a  real  convict  might  make.  Foreseeing  such  criti- 
cism, I  had  tried  to  forestall  it  in  the  remarks  I 
addressed  to  the  prisoners  the  day  before  my 
experiment  began;  and  if  some  of  my  editorial 
critics  had  taken  the  trouble  to  read  their  own 
press  dispatches,  they  might  have  been  saved  some 
distress  of  mind.  No  one  could  have  understood 
better  than  I  did  at  the  outset,  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  place  yourself  exactly  in  the  shoes  of  a 
man  who  has  been  sentenced  to  prison  for  an 
actual  crime;  I  did  not  expect  to  do  so.  No  one, 
so  far  as  I  know,  has  ever  yet  succeeded  in  putting 
himself  precisely  in  the  place  of  another  in  any 
given  set  of  circumstances ;  yet  that  does  not  keep 
us  from  constantly  studying  and  analyzing  the 
human  problem.  It  still  remains  true  that  "The 
proper  study  of  mankind  is  man."  In  this  par- 
ticular instance,  perhaps  some  things  of  value 
were  obtained  for  the  very  reason  that  I  was  not 
a  criminal.  Possibly  I  could  judge  of  some  mat- 
ters with  a  juster  appreciation  than  could  any  man 
suffering  involuntary  imprisonment.  It  did,  in 
fact,  surprise  me  very  much  that  anyone  could 
succeed  to  so  great  an  extent  in  putting  himself  in 
the  place  and  in  sharing  so  many  of  the  sensations 

8 


WHY    I    WENT   TO    PRISON 

of  an  actual  prisoner.  Time  and  again  I  heard 
from  others  the  expression  of  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings which  I  recognized  as  those  which  had  swept 
over  me;  and  I  found  that,  partly  by  force  of 
imagination  and  environment  and  partly  by  the 
actual  physical  conditions  of  confinement,  one 
could  really  come  into  astonishingly  close  sym- 
pathy and  understanding  with  the  prisoner.  The 
truth  of  this  can,  I  believe,  be  seen  in  my  narra- 
tive and  has  been  demonstrated  many  times  since 
my  release. 

Of  course  all  this  would  not  have  been  possible 
had  not  the  attitude  of  both  officers  and  inmates 
been  just  what  it  was.  As  I  look  back,  it  seems 
to  me  that  all  hands  played  their  parts  to  per- 
fection. The  strict  orders  of  the  Warden  that  I 
was  to  receive  no  favors  whatever  and  must  be 
treated  exactly  like  any  ordinary  inmate,  were  lit- 
erally carried  out — except  in  the  two  or  three  un- 
important instances  noted  in  my  journal.  But  far 
more  remarkable  was  the  attitude  of  the  prison- 
ers. An  outsider  would  never  have  detected  a 
look  or  an  action  to  indicate  that  there  was  any 
difference  between  "Tom  Brown"  and  any  other 
inmate  of  the  institution.  Of  course  it  could  not 
be  absolutely  the  same ;  it  was  not  possible  for  me 
to  escape  being  an  object  of  interest;  and  I  often 
felt  around  me  a  sort  of  suppressed  excitement; 
although,  as  I  glanced  again  at  the  stolid  gray 
automatons,  among  whom  I  marched  or  sat  at 

9 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

mess,  I  would  think  it  must  be  only  my  imagina- 
tion— a  reflex  of  my  own  excitement.  Still  I 
would  catch  an  occasional  smile,  a  wink,  a  lifting 
of  an  eyebrow,  the  ghost  of  a  nod — to  show  that 
those  silent  figures  were  not  really  indifferent  to 
my  presence  among  them.  And  as  I  went  to  my 
cell  for  the  night,  there  might  be  a  momentary 
pause  by  a  gray-clothed  figure  at  the  door,  and  a 
low  whisper,  "How  does  it  go,  Tom?"  All  such 
things,  however,  might  well  have  been  in  the  case 
of  any  new  convict  who  had  figured  in  the  public 
prints  and  had  thus  become  an  object  of  common 
interest. 

After  all  possible  deductions  have  been  made, 
the  fact  remains  that  my  experiment  met  condi- 
tions at  the  prison  which,  thanks  to  officers  and 
inmates,  led  to  a  large  measure  of  gratifying  suc- 
cess. It  is  hard  to  see  how,  from  any  point  of 
view,  the  experience  could  have  been  improved 
upon;  it  is  hard  to  see  how  I  could  possibly  have 
learned  more  in  a  week  than  I  did.  If  it  were  to 
be  done  over  again,  there  is  nothing  whatever  that 
I  would  change.  It  has  been  not  only  a  novel  and 
most  interesting  experience,  it  has  been  a  wonder- 
ful revelation.  I  have  come  out  of  prison  with  a 
new  conception  of  the  inherent  nobility  of  human 
nature,  a  new  belief  in  the  power  of  men  to  re- 
spond to  the  right  conditions  and  the  right  ap- 
peal. I  have  come  out  with  a  new  sense  of  human 
brotherhood,  a  new  faith  in  God. 

10 


CHAPTER   II 

SUNDAY'S  JOURNAL 

September  28,  1913.    9.30  P.M. 


ALL  is  ready  for  my  great  adventure.  In- 
deed the  first  steps  have  been  taken. 
This  morning  I  went  down  to  the  Prison 
to  speak  at  the  chapel  exercises  as  planned;  but 
arrived  early,  about  nine  o'clock,  at  Warden  Rat- 
tigan's  request,  in  order  to  inform  the  Chaplain 
as  to  what  I  am  proposing  to  do.  He  seemed  very 
much  surprised  and  pleased.  The  Warden  also 
explained  the  matter  to  the  Principal  Keeper;  but 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  venture  a  guess  at  his  feel- 
ings, for  I  was  not  present.  I  can  imagine,  how- 
ever, that  the  official  view  may  not  be  one  alto- 
gether in  sympathy  with  my  experiment.  The 
official  mind,  as  a  rule,  prefers  to  have  things 
viewed  strictly  from  the  "congregation  side";  it 
does  not  approve  of  interlopers  behind  the  scenes; 
which  is  not,  perhaps,  altogether  unnatural. 

II 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

When  the  prisoners  are  all  assembled,  the 
Chaplain  leads  the  way  and  we  walk  down  the 
aisle  of  the  chapel  or  assembly  room — the  latter 
name  seems  more  appropriate,  as  there  is  very 
little  there  to  suggest  religion.  Ascending  the 
platform,  we  are  greeted  by  a  cordial  round  of 
applause;  the  men  have  apparently  not  forgotten 
my  talk  to  them  in  the  yard  last  July,  when  I  ex- 
plained what  our  Prison  Reform  Commission 
hopes  to  accomplish,  and  asked  their  assistance. 

I  take  my  seat  upon  the  platform  and,  while 
awaiting  my  turn  to  speak,  endeavor  to  listen  to 
the  service.  Before  me  sit  rows  and  rows  of  men 
in  gray  trousers  and  faded  shirts,  upward  of 
1,300 — not  a  full  house,  for  a  considerable  num- 
ber are  out  in  the  road-building  camps.  Gray 
predominates — not  only  in  the  gray  clothes  but  in 
the  heads  and  faces.  There  are  a  few  bright 
spots  of  youth  and  manly  vigor,  and  some  black 
negro  heads,  but  the  general  impression  is  gray; 
gray,  and  faded,  and  prematurely  old.  It  is  a 
sad  audience,  to  which  a  sinister  aspect  is  given 
by  the  sight  of  the  guards — silent,  alert,  blue- 
clothed  figures,  youthful  for  the  most  part,  seated 
with  watchful  eyes  and  weapons  handy,  each  in  a 
raised  chair  near  his  own  particular  company. 

But,  although  a  sad  audience  to  look  upon,  it 
is,  as  I  have  found  on  previous  occasions,  a  most 
wonderfully  sensitive  and  responsive  audience  to 
address.  Each  point  of  the  discourse  is  caught 

12 


SUNDAY'S   JOURNAL 

with  extraordinary  quickness;  every  slight  at- 
tempt at  humor  is  seized  upon  with  pathetic 
avidity.  The  speaker  soon  finds  himself  stimu- 
lated and  carried  along,  as  by  a  strange  and  pow- 
erful force  he  has  never  felt  before.  It  is  an  ex- 
citing and  exhilarating  experience  to  talk  to  a 
prison  audience;  but  one  must  take  good  care  not 
to  be  a  bore,  nor  to  try  any  cheap  oratorical 
tricks;  for  it  is  not  only  a  keen  and  critical  au- 
dience, it  is  a  merciless  one. 

This  morning  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  boring 
the  hearers;  but  I  do  wonder  whether  they  will 
fully  take  in  my  meaning;  and  how  those  who  do 
understand  will  like  the  idea  of  my  coming  among 
them;  and  if  some  of  them  understand  and  sym- 
pathize, will  it  be  a  few  only,  or  a  majority;  and 
if  a  majority,  how  large;  and  will  the  minority 
resent  it  sufficiently  to  be  disagreeable? 

These  are  some  of  the  questions  which  go  buz- 
zing through  my  mind  as  I  sit  trying  in  vain  to 
listen  to  the  singing  of  the  prison  choir  and  the 
Scripture  lesson  which  the  Chaplain  is  reading. 
Finally  I  am  called  upon  to  speak;  and  as  I  ad- 
vance to  the  front  of  the  stage  another  round  of 
applause  comes  from  the  audience.  It  has  rather 
a  startling  effect  upon  one,  for  applause  in  the 
prison  chapel  has  always  somewhat  the  character 
of  an  explosion — an  explosion  of  pent-up  feelings 
denied  any  ordinary  freedom  of  expression. 

13 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

Hand-clapping  is  the  only  form  permitted,  and  it 
sounds  like  the  snapping  of  firecrackers. 

I  advance  to  the  front  of  the  stage  and  stumble 
through  the  first  words  of  explanation  as  to  the 
reasons  for  having  my  speech  carefully  written 
out — in  order  to  avoid  any  possible  misunder- 
standing afterward  as  to  what  I  really  have  said. 
Then  I  clear  my  throat  and  read  the  address 
which  follows. 


The  Superintendent  of  Prisons  and  Warden  Rattigan 
have  kindly  given  me  permission  to  carry  out  a  plan  which 
has  been  in  my  mind  for  some  time;  and  to  carry  it  out 
successfully  I  need  your  cooperation — both  officials  and 
prisoners. 

As  most  of  you  doubtless  know,  I  am  chairman  of  the 
Commission  on  Prison  Reform  appointed  by  Governor 
Sulzer  to  examine  into  the  Prison  System  of  New  York 
State,  determine  what  changes  would  be  desirable  and 
formulate  legislation  necessary  to  bring  about  such 
changes.  The  members  of  the  Commission  since  their 
appointment  have  been  quietly  at  work  informing  them- 
selves as  to  the  manner  in  which  the  present  System 
works  out,  its  effect  upon  prisoners,  the  measure  of  its 
success  as  a  means  of  reducing  crime  throughout  the  state. 

It  must  be  evident  that  any  such  examination,  seriously 
undertaken,  is  an  extremely  complex  and  difficult  matter. 
Not  only  are  trustworthy  statistics  absolutely  lacking  by 
which  to  determine  the  more  obvious  facts,  but  statistics 
are  manifestly  impossible  to  secure  regarding  the  deepest 
and  most  important  parts  of  the  problem — for  instance,  as 


SUNDAY'S   JOURNAL 

to  the  psychological  effect  on  the  prisoners  themselves  of 
the  Prison  System,  both  as  a  whole  and  as  to  certain  spe- 
cific rules  and  regulations. 

For  much  of  the  most  important  work  of  the  Com- 
mission, therefore,  we  must  fall  back  on  such  experience 
of  life  and  knowledge  of  human  nature  as  its  members 
may  possess.  And  it  is  with  a  desire  to  extend  my  own 
knowledge  and  experience  in  the  service  of  the  Commis- 
sion that  I  ask  your  help  in  carrying  out  the  plan  to 
which  I  have  referred. 

When  a  man  wishes  to  understand  as  fully  as  possible 
the  temper  and  character  of  the  people  of  a  foreign 
country — England  or  France,  Germany,  India,  China — he 
can  consult  a  great  deal  of  printed  matter;  but  he  will 
not  be  satisfied  until  he  has  made  a  personal  visit  to  the 
country  itself.  For  instance,  I  have  but  the  merest  smat- 
tering of  the  French  language,  and  I  have  been  privileged 
to  know  socially  but  very  few  Frenchmen,  yet  my  visits 
to  France  have  given  me  an  infinitely  better  idea  of  the 
country  and  people  than  I  could  ever  have  received  from 
books.  The  actual  sights  and  sounds  of  a  country  seem 
to  provide  the  foundation  for  a  far  better  understanding 
of  its  history,  a  more  thorough  appreciation  of  all  that 
can  be  read  and  heard  of  it  thereafter. 

If  this  sympathy  and  understanding,  coming  from  a 
vivid  personal  experience,  is  desirable  in  the  case  of  a 
foreign  country,  it  is  even  more  necessary  in  the  case 
of  a  group  of  men  set  apart  by  society,  such  as  this  com- 
munity of  the  prison;  for  in  your  case  the  conditions 
under  which  you  live  are  more  unnatural  and  less  easy 
for  most  people  to  grasp  than  those  of  a  foreign  country. 

15 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

Moreover,  most  of  the  books  that  have  been  written 
about  you  by  so-called  penologists  and  other  "experts" 
are  written,  so  far  as  I  can  determine,  from  such  an  out- 
side standpoint  and  with  so  little  intelligent  sympathy 
and  vital  understanding  that  I  am  inclined  to  the  belief 
that  very  few  of  them  are  of  any  particular  value.  In- 
deed many  are  positively  harmful ;  for  they  are  based  upon 
the  false  and  cruel  assumption  that  the  prisoner  is  not  a 
human  being  like  the  rest  of  us,  but  a  strange  sort  of 
animal  called  a  "criminal" — wholly  different  in  his  in- 
stincts, feelings  and  actions  from  the  rest  of  mankind. 

I  am  curious  to  find  out,  therefore,  whether  I  am  right ; 
whether  our  Prison  System  is  as  unintelligent  as  I  think 
it  is;  whether  it  flies  in  the  face  of  all  common  sense  and 
all  human  nature,  as  I  think  it  does;  whether,  guided  by 
sympathy  and  experience,  we  cannot  find  something  far 
better  to  take  its  place,  as  I  believe  we  can. 

So  by  permission  of  the  authorities  and  with  your  help, 
I  am  coming  here  to  learn  what  I  can  at  first  hand.  I 
have  put  myself  on  trial  in  the  court  of  conscience  and 
a  verdict  has  been  rendered  of  "guilty" — guilty  of  having 
lived  for  many  years  of  my  life  indifferent  to  and  ignorant 
of  what  was  going  on  behind  these  walls.  For  this  crime 
I  have  sentenced  myself  to  a  short  term  at  hard  labor  in 
Auburn  Prison  (with  commutation,  of  course,  for  good 
behavior).  I  expect  to  begin  serving  my  sentence  this 
week.  I  am  coming  here  to  live  your  life;  to  be  housed, 
clothed,  fed,  treated  in  all  respects  like  one  of  you.  I 
want  to  see  for  myself  exactly  what  your  life  is  like,  not 
as  viewed  from  the  outside  looking  in,  but  from  the  inside 
looking  out. 

16 


SUNDAY'S   JOURNAL 

Of  course  I  am  not  so  foolish  as  to  think  that  I  can 
see  it  from  exactly  your  point  of  view.  Manifestly  a 
man  cannot  be  a  real  prisoner  when  he  may  at  any  mo- 
ment let  down  the  bars  and  walk  out;  and  spending  a  few 
hours  or  days  in  a  cell  is  quite  a  different  thing  from 
a  weary  round  of  weeks,  months,  years.  Nor  is  prison  a 
mere  matter  of  clothes,  they  cannot  make  a  convict  any 
more  than  they  can  make  a  gentleman.  I  realize  per- 
fectly that  my  point  of  view  cannot  be  yours ;  but  neither 
when  I  go  to  Paris  is  my  point  of  view  that  of  a  French- 
man. Just  as  an  American  may  perhaps  understand  some 
things  about  Paris  which  are  not  so  clear  to  the  average 
Frenchman,  so  perhaps  a  short  residence  among  you  here 
may  enable  me  to  judge  some  things  about  the  Prison 
System  more  accurately  than  those  who  live  too  close  to 
the  problem  to  see  it  in  its  true  perspective. 

A  word  to  the  officials.  My  plan  will  not  altogether 
succeed  unless  I  am  treated  exactly  like  these  other  men. 
I  ask  you,  therefore,  to  aid  me  by  making  no  discrimina- 
tion in  my  favor.  Relax  your  regular  discipline  not  a 
jot  because  I  am  here.  Give  me  the  same  guidance  as 
these  others — but  no  more.  If  I  offend  against  the  rules, 
deal  out  to  me  the  same  punishment — I  shall  expect  it. 

Here  again  I  do  not  deceive  myself ;  I  realize  perfectly 
that  I  shall  not  see  the  Prison  System  in  quite  its  normal 
running  order.  Things  can  hardly,  with  the  best  inten- 
tions, keep  going  exactly  the  same  while  I  am  here.  Long 
ago  when  I  was  a  very  young  school  commissioner  I 
found  out  that  neither  teachers  nor  scholars  can  behave 
quite  naturally  when  a  member  of  the  school  board  is 
present.  But  let  me  assure  you  that  I  come  not  on  any 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

errand  of  official  investigation.  I  come  in  no  sense  as  a 
spy  upon  officers  or  inmates;  I  come  not  to  discover 
anything;  I  come  solely  to  test,  so  far  as  I  can,  the  effect 
of  the  system  upon  the  mind  of  the  prisoner.  I  shall 
study  myself,  rather  than  you;  or  rather,  I  shall  study 
you  through  myself. 

Perhaps  many  of  you  will  think,  as  many  outside  the 
walls  will  think,  that  at  best  this  action  is  quixotic — an- 
other "fool's  errand,  by  one  of  the  fools."  I  shall  not 
argue  the  matter  further.  I  believe  that  I  fully  realize 
the  shortcomings  which  will  attend  the  experience,  yet 
still  I  shall  undertake  it.  For  somehow,  deep  down,  I  have 
the  feeling  that  after  I  have  really  lived  among  you, 
marched  in  your  lines,  shared  your  food,  gone  to  the 
same  cells  at  night,  and  in  the  morning  looked  out  at  the 
pieces  of  God's  sunlight  through  the  same  iron  bars — 
that  then,  and  not  until  then,  can  I  feel  the  knowledge 
which  will  break  down  the  barriers  between  my  soul  and 
the  souls  of  my  brothers. 

A  final  word  to  you  all.  When  I  come  among  you 
do  your  best  to  forget  who  I  am.  Think  of  me  only  as 
a  new  and  quite  uninteresting  arrival.  Think  of  me  not 
as  a  member  of  the  Prison  Reform  Commission,  nor  as 
the  fellow  townsman  of  you  officers,  but  as  plain  Tom 
Brown  or  Jones  or  Robinson,  sent  by  the  courts  for  some 
breach  of  the  law  and  who  is  no  more  to  you  for  the 
present  than  any  other  Tom,  Dick  or  Harry.  Some  day 
in  the  future,  after  I  have  done  my  time,  perhaps  my 
experience  may  be  of  service  to  you  and  to  the  State,  but  of 
that  we  will  talk  later.  In  the  meantime,  help  me  to 
learn  the  truth. 

18 


SUNDAY'S   JOURNAL 

I  have  already  attempted  to  describe  my  state 
of  mind  at  the  commencement  of  this  talk.  As  I 
went  on,  there  came  the  feeling  that,  keen  as  they 
usually  are,  the  men  were  having  some  difficulty 
in  grasping  my  full  meaning;  were  in  doubt 
whether  I  really  did  intend  to  carry  out  in  all  sin- 
cerity the  plan  of  actually  living  their  life.  But 
as  they  began  to  comprehend  the  full  significance 
of  the  idea,  their  applause  increased  in  volume 
and  heartiness.1 

I  have  spoken  of  the  sensitive  quickness  of  the 
prison  audience ;  I  experienced  an  instance.  When 
the  next  to  the  last  paragraph  of  my  address  was 
first  written,  I  used  the  words,  "and  in  the  morn- 
ing looked  out  at  God's  sunlight  through  the  same 
iron  bars."  Then  there  had  come  into  my  mind 
the  picture  made  by  the  grated  window,  and  I 
added  three  words  so  as  to  read,  "looked  out  at 
the  pieces  of  God's  sunlight."  As  I  spoke  those 
words  a  burst  of  hearty  laughter  at  the  touch  of 
irony  came  so  quickly  that  I  had  to  wait  before 
finishing  the  clause;  at  the  close  of  the  sentence, 

1  One  of  the  men  in  Auburn  Prison,  explaining  the 
feelings  of  their  inmates  in  chapel  this  Sunday  morning, 
writes  the  following  comment:  "The  men  could  not 
realize  what  was  actually  meant  by  this  at  first;  and  as 
they  grasped  the  idea  it  sort  of  staggered  them  and 
some  thought,  myself  among  others,  'What's  the  matter? 
What  manner  of  man  is  this?1  " 

19 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

with  its  note  of  brotherhood,  all  laughter  ceased 
at  once;  and  the  loudest  applause  of  the  morning 
showed  me  that  what  I  had  said  had  struck  just 
the  right  note,  and  that  the  help  I  wanted  from 
the  prisoners  would  not  be  lacking. 

After  my  address  I  leave  the  Prison  and  pro- 
ceed to  my  office  where  I  am  interviewed  by  repre- 
sentatives of  the  press.  This  is  a  disagreeable 
duty  which  I  had  up  to  this  last  moment  hoped  to 
escape ;  for  even  after  giving  up  the  notion  of  dis- 
guise I  had  still  cherished  the  idea  that  it  was  pos- 
sible, with  the  aid  of  the  Warden,  to  keep  my  ad- 
venture from  being  made  public  until  it  was  all 
over.  But  in  our  talk  this  morning  the  Warden 
very  quickly  convinced  me  that  secrecy  is  impos- 
sible. 

"Can't  you  give  instructions  to  all  the  officers 
to  say  nothing  about  it  outside?"  I  ask. 

"Certainly  I  can,"  is  the  Warden's  reply;  "and 
you  know  as  well  as  I  just  how  much  good  it  would 
do.  Here  are  a  hundred  officers ;  they  might  have 
the  best  intentions,  but  each  one  would  have  to 
confide  it  to  his  wife,  and  she  to  her  dearest 
friend;  and  it  would  be  all  over  town  in  less  than 
two  hours.  You  must  remember  that  this  is  a  very 
interesting  performance,  and  you  can't  keep  it 
quiet.  I'll  try  it  if  you  say  so,  but  my  belief  is  that 
it  would  be  a  mistake.  You  might  better  see  to  it 
that  it  gets  into  the  newspapers  in  the  shape  you 

20 


SUNDAY'S   JOURNAL 

want,  rather  than  let  it  leak  out  and  be  misrepre- 
sented, intentionally  or  otherwise." 

The  Warden  has  the  old  newspaper  man's  in- 
stinct, and  reluctantly  I  have  to  admit  that  his 
view  is  correct.  So  without  more  ado  I  turn  my 
attention  to  aiding  the  press  to  get  what  there  is, 
and  if  possible  get  it  straight.  Fortunately  the 
local  representative  of  many  important  papers  is 
more  than  usually  careful  and  intelligent.  I  hand 
him  a  copy  of  my  address  of  this  morning  and  he 
gets  to  work.  If  we  cannot  have  secrecy  then  let 
us  have  all  the  publicity  we  can.  After  all,  the 
newspapers  may  interest  people  in  my  adventure, 
and  thus  stimulate  an  interest  in  Prison  Reform. 
I  am  willing  to  waive  my  personal  preferences  if 
by  so  doing  I  can  help  forward  the  cause;  espe- 
cially as  the  satisfaction  of  my  personal  prefer- 
ences is  manifestly  impossible. 

After  this  I  give  attention  to  my  private  affairs 
which  are  arranged  for  the  coming  week.  Strict 
orders  are  issued  that  no  attempt  be  made  to 
reach  me  with  personal  matters  of  any  sort,  ex- 
cept in  a  case  of  the  most  extreme  importance.  I 
am  to  be  as  completely  shut  off  from  the  world, 
from  my  family  and  friends,  as  any  regular  pris- 
oner. So  when  it  comes  to  this  point  I  begin  to 
feel  rather  serious.  I  am  aware  of  a  certain 
sinking  at  the  heart,  doubtless  a  form  of  fear;  the 
unknown  always  has  terrors. 

21 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

The  plan  determined  upon  with  the  Warden  is 
that  I  shall  be  placed  with  the  Idle  Company  for 
the  first  day  or  two — those  poor  fellows  whom  I 
have  often  seen  in  the  prison  yard  during  the  past 
summer,  taking  their  melancholy  exercise  by 
marching  aimlessly  up  and  down,  and  occasionally 
resting  by  sitting  on  their  buckets;  then  along 
about  the  third  day  to  go  to  one  of  the  shops — 
which  one  to  be  determined  later.  But  the  War- 
den told  me  this  afternoon  that  upon  mentioning 
this  plan  to  one  of  the  officials  he  had  protested. 
"I  shouldn't  like  to  have  Mr.  Osborne  put  with 
that  Idle  Company.  They're  the  toughest  bunch 
of  fellows  in  the  Prison." 

"That's  just  what  he  wants,"  was  the  Warden's 
reply. 

It  is  true,  I  do  want  to  make  acquaintance  with 
the  worst  as  well  as  the  best;  but  I  can't  help  feel- 
ing just  a  trifle  uneasy  at  the  prospect  of  close  re- 
lations with  the  toughest  bunch  in  the  Prison;  to 
say  nothing  of  my  query  as  to  just  how  the  tough- 
est bunch  in  the  Prison  is  going  to  meet  me.  What 
will  they  be  like  at  close  range  ?  And,  if  they  do 
not  look  with  favor  upon  my  action,  in  what  way 
will  their  resentment  be  shown?  These  questions 
keep  rising  to  the  surface.  At  the  same  time,  I 
begin  to  be  aware  of  an  ache  in  one  of  my  teeth 
where  a  filling  came  out  some  time  ago.  Luckily 
I  did  not  say  on  just  what  day  my  term  would  be- 
gin, although  of  course  I've  had  to-morrow  in 

22 


SUNDAY'S   JOURNAL 

mind  right  along.  If  my  toothache  gets  worse,  I 
can  wait  over  another  day  and  have  it  attended  to. 
Perhaps,  on  the  whole  it  would  be  best  to  wait 
over  another  day.  On  the  other  hand,  I  have  an 
idea  that  the  toothache  is  nothing  but  plain  cow- 
ardice. 

As  we  sit  down  to  dinner,  I  attempt  to  be  jocu- 
lar with  my  youngest.  "Well,  Golfer,"  I  remark; 
"this  is  my  last  good  meal.  To-morrow  your 
father  goes  to  prison  for  a  week!" 

"Hm!"  responds  the  interesting  youth,  "it'll 
do  you  good." 

I  recover  myself  with  some  difficulty.  "Now 
what  in  thunder  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Oh,  you  won't  be  so  fat  when  you  come  out." 

I'm  inclined  to  think  he's  right,  but  it  is  evident 
that  I  need  expect  no  sentimental  sympathy  from 
my  own  family. 

Here  I  close  my  journal  for  to-night.  I  feel 
decidedly  solemn.  I  wonder  how  I  shall  be  feel- 
ing at  this  time  to-morrow  night. 

"To-morrow!    Why,  to-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself  with  yesterday's  sev'n  thousand  years." 


CHAPTER   III 

MONDAY  MORNING 

Cell  15,  second  tier,  north,  north  wing,  Auburn  Prison. 
September  29.  It  is  noon  hour;  somewhere  about 
12:45  I  should  think. 

I  am  a  prisoner,  locked,  double  locked.  By  no  human 
possibility,  by  no  act  of  my  own,  can  I  throw  open  the 
iron  grating  which  shuts  me  from  the  world  into  this 
small  stone  vault.  I  am  a  voluntary  prisoner,  it  is  true; 
nevertheless  even  a  voluntary  prisoner  can't  unlock  the 
door  of  his  cell — that  must  be  done  by  someone  from  out- 
side. I  am  perfectly  conscious  of  a  horrible  feeling  of 
constraint — of  confinement.  It  recalls  an  agonized  mo- 
ment of  my  childhood  when  I  accidentally  locked  myself 
into  a  closet. 

My  cell  is  exactly  four  feet  wide  by  seven  and  a  half 
feet  long,  measuring  by  my  own  feet,  and  about  seven 
and  a  half  feet  high.1  The  iron  bed  is  hooked  to  the 
wall  and  folds  up  against  it;  the  mattress  and  blankets 
hang  over  it.  The  entire  furniture  consists  of  one  stool, 
a  shelf  or  table  which  drops  down  against  the  wall  when 
not  held  up  by  hooks,  an  iron  basin  filled  with  water  for 

1  Mine  was  one  of  the  larger  cells.  Many  of  them 
are  only  three  and  a  half  feet  wide. 

ft* 


MONDAY    MORNING 

washing  purposes,  a  covered  iron  bucket  for  other  pur- 
poses, a  tin  cup  for  drinking  water  which  was  filled  shortly 
before  noon  by  the  convict  orderly,  and  an  old  broom 
which  stands  in  the  corner.  A  small  wooden  locker  with 
three  shelves  is  fastened  up  in  the  farther  left-hand  corner. 
The  pillow  hangs  in  the  opposite  right-hand  corner  over 
the  edge  of  the  bed. 

This  is  a  cell  in  one  of  the  oldest  parts  of  the  prison. 
It  has  a  concrete  floor  and  plastered  walls  and  ceiling,  and 
looks  clean.  From  my  grated  door,  being  on  the  second 
tier,  I  can  see  diagonally  out  of  four  heavily  barred  win- 
dows in  the  outer  wall,  looking  across  about  ten  feet, 
over  the  open  space  which  drops  to  the  stone  corridor 
below,  and  rises  to  the  highest  galleries.  Through  the  two 
lower  windows  I  catch  glimpses  of  the  ground,  through 
the  two  upper,  of  leaves  and  branches  and  the  sky.  The 
daylight  in  the  cell  is  enough  at  the  present  moment  to 
read  and  write  by,  but  none  too  good.  Outside  it  is  a 
very  bright,  sunny  day.  If  it  were  a  dark  day  I  could  not 
see  much  without  a  light.  The  electric  bulb  hangs  from 
a  hook  in  the  center  of  the  rounded  ceiling  and  my  head 
nearly  touches  it. 

So  much  for  my  present  surroundings ;  now  let  me  begin 
the  story  of  the  day. 


UPON   arising  this  morning  at  home,   the 
toothache,  although  I  could  still  feel  it 
grumbling,   had  so  modified  that  I  be- 
came convinced  that  it  was  largely  imagination. 
As  it  has  since  disappeared  it  must  have  been  en- 

25 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

tirely  imagination.    There  seems  to  be  no  excuse 
whatever  for  not  going  ahead. 

Having  noticed  yesterday  that,  although  the 
prisoners  are  allowed  to  wear  their  hair  as  they 
please,  their  faces  are  all  smooth  shaven,  I  begin 
the  day  by  the  sacrifice  of  my  mustache.  I  shave, 
dress,  and  eat  as  much  breakfast  as  I  can — which 
is  not  very  much. 

At  nine  o'clock  I  am  at  the  railway  station  to 
say  good-bye  to  the  Warden,  who  has  been  called 
to  Albany  on  business.  After  the  train  leaves  at 
9 :3O  I  go  to  my  office,  where  there  are  some  last 
matters  to  attend  to,  bid  farewell  to  the  few 
friends  who  are  about,  and  at  ten  o'clock  present 
myself  at  the  prison  entrance. 

The  polite  guard  at  the  gate  unlocks  it,  I  enter, 
and  the  first  barrier  between  me  and  the  world 
shuts  behind  me.  I  mount  the  steps  to  the  main 
building,  and  turn  into  the  Warden's  office.  I  am 
dressed  in  old  clothes,  appropriate  for  the  oc- 
casion, and  have  no  valuables  or  money  about  my 
person. 

In  the  Warden's  office  a  few  last  details  are 
arranged  with  Grant,  the  Prison  Superintendent 
of  Industries,  who  is  acting  for  the  Warden ;  and 
my  name  and  certain  details  of  my  family  history 
and  career  of  crime  are  taken  down  by  the  War- 
den's clerk  on  a  slip  of  paper,  which  is  handed 
over  to  a  good-looking,  well-groomed  young  offi- 
cer, to  whom  I  am  given  in  charge. 

26 


MONDAY    MORNING 

On  Saturday,  when  writing  out  yesterday's  ad- 
dress, it  occurred  to  me  that  it  might  be  useful  to 
take  an  alias.  Such  a  notion  doubtless  seems  a 
trifle  foolish  at  first  thought;  considering  that  there 
is  no  secret  of  my  identity,  but  I  reasoned  that  if 
officers  and  prisoners  always  had  my  own  name 
in  mind  or  on  tongue  every  time  they  looked  at  or 
addressed  me,  it  would  really  make  it  more  diffi- 
cult to  be  accepted  on  the  basis  of  an  ordinary  in- 
mate. I  decided,  therefore,  to  take  a  name  which 
would  have  no  association  whatever  with  the 
chairman  of  the  Prison  Reform  Commission,  yet 
would  be  somewhat  in  character.  So  on  the  rec- 
ords I  am  entered  as  Thomas  Brown,  No. 

33.333X. 

The  young  officer  in  his  neat  blue  uniform,  car- 
rying his  loaded  stick,  says  briefly,  "Step  this  way, 
Brown."  I  am  hazily  aware  of  being  a  momen- 
tary object  of  interest  to  the  men  in  the  back  of- 
fice ;  a  heavy  iron  door  is  unlocked  at  the  head  of 
a  flight  of  iron  stairs;  and  as  the  door  clangs  be- 
hind me  and  I  hear  the  key  turn  in  the  lock,  I  be- 
gin to  realize  that  I  am  a  prisoner.  I  have  made  a 
bargain  with  myself  to  stay  here  a  week,  and  I 
cannot  leave  sooner  without  serious  loss  of  self- 
respect. 

The  taciturn  young  officer  takes  me  downstairs 
and  across  the  yard.  I  am  conscious  of  many 
pairs  of  eyes  looking  out  from  windows  and  doors, 

27 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

and  the  few  prisoners  scattered  about  the  yard 
singly  or  in  groups  stare  with  interest.  My  guide 
accompanies  me  to  one  of  the  buildings  about  half- 
way down  on  the  left,  which  proves  to  be  the  tailor 
shop.  Here  in  a  corner  of  the  shop,  without  any 
screens  and  in  full  view  of  all  passers  in  and  out, 
are  three  porcelain-lined  iron  bathtubs  side  by 
side,  looking  very  white  and  clean.  I  am  directed 
to  take  off  my  clothes,  which  I  do,  and  then  or- 
dered to  get  into  one  of  the  tubs,  in  which  a  negro 
prisoner  has  drawn  a  warm  bath.  I  obey  and 
make  use  of  the  soap,  and  later  of  the  towel 
which  the  attendant  hands  me.  After  I  am  dry  I 
am  given  my  prison  clothes — a  suit  of  underwear, 
a  pair  of  socks,  a  cotton  shirt  with  narrow  blue 
and  white  stripes,  and  a  suit  of  rough  gray  cloth. 
There  is  also  a  pair  of  very  thick  and  heavy  shoes. 
All  the  clothes  are  new.  My  coat  fastens  down 
the  front  with  five  light  metal  buttons,  on  which 
are  the  words  State  Prison  in  raised  letters.  The 
seven  smaller  buttons  of  the  waistcoat  are  similar. 
My  uniform  is  not  exactly  a  first-class  fit,  but  good 
enough  for  the  purpose.  A  cap,  rough  gray  to 
match  the  suit,  together  with  a  stiff  new  gray 
towel  and  a  cake  of  white  soap,  completes  my  out- 
fit. I  am  ordered  to  remove  my  wedding  ring,  but 
the  officer  explains  that  I  am  to  be  allowed  to  re- 
tain it.  This  is  the  first  exception  made  in  my  case. 
The  rest  of  my  belongings  are  bundled  up  and 
disappear  from  sight.  All  that  is  left  of  my 

28 


MONDAY    MORNING 

former  self  is  what  can't  very  well  be  eradicated. 
So  far  as  is  humanly  possible,  I  am  precisely  like 
the  other  1,329  gray  figures  which  to-day  inhabit 
this  abnormal  world  within  the  walls. 

We  return  to  the  administration  building  and 
I  am  taken  to  the  office  of  the  Principal  Keeper, 
where  are  propounded  to  me  a  series  of  questions, 
the  answers  to  which  are  duly  entered  on  the 
records:  name,  age,  occupation,  married  or  single, 
Protestant  or  Catholic,  parents  living  or  dead, 
any  children,  character  of  my  crime,  is  this  my 
first  term,  have  I  ever  gone  under  any  other  name, 
temperate  or  intemperate,  and  so  forth  and  so  on. 
Some  of  these  questions  have  already  been  an- 
swered at  the  front  office,  and  the  officer  holds 
the  paper  in  his  hand;  but  I  answer  them  again, 
suppressing  such  facts  as  I  do  not  wish  to  have  a 
matter  of  record.1 

After  my  history  has  been  duly  taken,  I  am 
handed  a  copy  of  the  rules  of  the  prison;  and  the 
Principal  Keeper  facing  me  across  a  small  desk 
makes  a  neat  little  speech,  giving  friendly  advice 
as  to  my  conduct  while  in  the  institution.  It  is 

1  It  is  perhaps  needless  to  point  out  how  much  inac- 
curacy there  must  be  in  any  statistics  made  up  from  rec- 
ords taken  in  such  a  manner.  The  prisoner  gives  such  an- 
swers as  he  pleases.  If  he  is  found  out  in  a  lie  he  is 
punished — but  how  often  is  he  found  out? 

29 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

excellent  advice,  as  far  as  it  goes,  and  for  it  I 
thank  him  respectfully. 

Then  clearing  his  throat  he  says  slowly  and 
ponderously,  "Brown,  after  you  have  had  your 
medical  examination,  you  will  be  put  to  work  in 
the  basket-shop,  under  Captain  Lamb.  He  will 
give  you  full  instructions  concerning  your  place  in 
his  company  and  your  work." 

It  is  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  say,  "But  it  was 
all  arranged  with  the  Warden  that  I  should  be  put 
first  with  the  Idle  Company."  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, I  catch  myself  just  in  time.  It  is  not  for  a 
convict  to  offer  objections  or  to  argue  with  the 
P.  K.  So  I  utter  another  brief  but  respectful, 
"Thank  you,  sir,"  and  feel  a  certain  relief  at  the 
postponement  of  my  acquaintance  with  the 
"toughest  bunch  of  fellows  in  the  Prison."  The 
Warden  returns  to-morrow,  and  an  exchange  can 
then  be  made  if  it  is  thought  advisable;  in  the 
meantime  it  is  my  business  to  do  exactly  what  I 
am  told. 

From  the  Principal  Keeper's  office  I  am  taken 
next  door  to  the  Chaplain.  Here  my  reception  is 
in  marked  contrast  to  the  previous  official  fri- 
gidities. I  fear  that  this  is  partially  due  to  the 
Chaplain's  failure  quite  to  realize  that  it  is  only 
Thomas  Brown,  a  stranger  and  a  new  arrival, 
whom  he  takes  so  warmly  by  the  hand.  My  evi- 
dent embarrassment  evidently  embarrasses  him, 
for  I  am  beginning  to  enter  so  much  into  the 

3° 


MONDAY    MORNING 

spirit  of  the  place  that  I  almost  feel  as  if  I  had 
been  detected  in  an  attempt  to  conceal  my  iden- 
tity. The  Chaplain  turns  me  over  to  a  convict 
stenographer  who  plies  me  with  another  series  of 
questions,  and  I  give  my  statistics  for  a  third  time. 
I  can  only  hope  that  my  answers  to  these  various 
sets  of  questions  are  fairly  uniform,  or  else  that 
they  will  not  be  compared  too  closely. 

The  Chaplain  and  his  assistant  (a  very  nice- 
looking  prisoner  named  Dickinson,  whose  ac- 
quaintance I  made  yesterday)  inquire  as  to  what 
books  I  should  like  to  read,  and  I  am  shown  a 
typewritten  list  from  which  to  choose.  I  am 
hardly  in  a  mental  state  to  do  so,  but  manage  to 
make  a  selection.  Unfortunately  nothing  I  want 
seems  available;  but  Dickinson  promises  to  get 
one  of  the  books  later,  and  in  the  meantime  I  am 
presented  with  a  Bible.  Then  I  am  taken  upstairs 
and  left  with  the  Doctor. 

The  Doctor  puts  me  through  another  series  of 
questions,  the  fourth;  many  of  them  duplicates  of 
the  others.  Then  he  starts  on  a  careful  physical 
examination  which  he  does  not  finish  as  it  is  get- 
ting too  near  dinner  time.  The  officer  returns  for 
me,  and  laden  with  my  complete  prison  baggage — 
one  towel,  a  cake  of  soap  and  a  Bible — I  am  con- 
ducted to  the  north  wing,  up  a  short  flight  of  iron 
stairs  and  along  a  narrow  wooden  gallery  with  an 
iron  bar  for  a  rail,  to  my  cell  on  the  second  tier, 
Number  15.  It  has  already  been  described.  I 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

remain  here  while  the  officer  goes  to  get  the  small 
handbag  left  at  the  Warden's  office,  containing  a 
few  things  which  I  am  to  be  allowed  to  have  in 
my  cell — writing  paper,  toothbrush,  towels, 
sponges,  toilet  paper,  and  a  razor.  Most  of  the 
men  are  shaved  twice  a  week  by  convict  barbers 
in  the  different  shops,  and  not  even  the  barbers  are 
allowed  razors  in  their  cells.  As  a  new  man  I 
ought  not  to  be  allowed  any  of  these  luxuries,  but 
this  is  exception  number  two. 

The  officer  first  returns  with  the  wrong  bag, 
but  soon  after  with  the  right  one,  and  I  am  then 
locked  in  until  dinner  time.  Soon  my  keeper  turns 
up,  Captain  Lamb,  the  head  of  the  basket-shop. 
He  introduces  himself  and  then  gives  me  instruc- 
tions as  to  my  immediate  conduct;  explains  the 
marching  signals,  the  seating  at  meals,  et  cetera. 
In  obedience  to  his  instructions,  I  take  off  my  cap 
and  coat  to  leave  them  in  the  cell;  and  when  he 
soon  passes  along  the  gallery  outside,  unlocking 
the  cells  by  pressing  down  the  levers,  I  push  open 
the  grated  door  and  follow  close  behind  him.  At 
the  foot  of  the  iron  stairs  he  allots  me  a  place  to- 
ward the  end  of  the  line ;  and  at  the  word  of  com- 
mand we  first  shuffle  and  then  march  in  double  file 
along  the  stone  corridors,  and  in  single  file  into 
the  mess-hall.  As  we  enter,  the  Principal  Keeper 
stands  at  the  door.  I  had  been  warned  to  place 
my  right  hand  on  my  left  breast,  by  way  of  salute ; 
but  the  prisoner  behind  me,  fearing  I  have  for- 

32 


MONDAY    CORNING 

gotten,  gives  me  a  friendly  poke,  and  I  assume 
the  proper  attitude  of  respect.  Our  line  swings 
around  to  the  right  and  marches  past  row  after 
row  of  men  in  gray,  all  facing  in  the  same  direc- 
tion and  bending  silently  over  their  food. 

Well  beyond  the  center  of  the  room  I  have  a 
place  at  the  end  of  a  long  wooden  shelf  which 
forms  the  table.  At  a  sharp  rap  of  the  Keeper's 
iron-shod  stick  on  the  floor,  we  pull  out  our  stools, 
and  stand  again  erect;  a  second  rap,  we  seat  our- 
selves and  immediately  fall  to,  as  our  dinner  has 
been  waiting  for  us.  I  am  pleased  and  rather 
surprised  to  find  it,  if  not  hot,  at  least  sufficiently 
warm.  Our  bill  of  fare  includes  a  cup  of  some- 
thing presumably  meant  for  coffee;  a  bowl  of  a 
thick  liquid  (I  could  not  decide  whether  it  was 
soup  or  gravy,  so  I  waited  to  see  what  the  others 
did  with  it;  some  used  it  for  one,  some  for  the 
other;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  very  palatable  bean 
soup)  ;  a  slice  or  two  of  very  good  ham;  excellent 
boiled  potatoes;  two  or  three  pickles  I  did  not  try; 
and  two  large  thick  slices  of  bread.  It  was  not  a 
bad  meal,  and  had  I  been  hungry  I  should  have 
done  more  justice  to  it. 

One  of  the  rules  the  Captain  mentioned  is  that 
no  bread  must  be  left  on  the  table;  so,  noticing 
what  the  other  men  do,  I  watch  for  the  passing  of 
the  waiter  with  a  large  pail  of  bread,  from  which 
he  gives  an  extra  slice  to  those  who  want  it,  and 

33 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

shy  my  second  slice  into  his  pail  as  he  goes  by. 
Of  course  no  conversation  is  allowed  at  meals ;  and 
anything  less  appetizing  than  the  rows  of  gray 
shoulders  and  backs  of  heads  in  front  of  one  I  can- 
not imagine.  The  watching  keepers,  standing 
sternly  and  silently  by,  certainly  do  not  add  to  the 
hilarity  of  the  occasion.  I  am  reminded  of  what 
my  convict  friend  once  said  to  me,  "You  know  we 
don't  really  eat  here ;  we  just  stoke  up." 

During  the  beginning  of  our  meal  other  com- 
panies are  continually  arriving  and  taking  their 
places  in  front  of  us;  and  during  the  latter  part 
others  are  departing  from  behind  us,  accompanied 
by  a  curious  noise  which  sounds  like  the  rattling 
of  castanets.  I  soon  make  out  that  it  is  the  dis- 
posal of  the  spoons,  forks,  and  knives.  I  have 
been  cautioned  by  the  Captain  that  upon  leaving 
the  table  the  three  implements  must  be  held  in 
full  view;  in  my  left  hand  if  I  march  on  that  side, 
otherwise  in  my  right.  These  implements  are 
jealously  watched  so  that  a  prisoner  shall  not  carry 
them  to  his  cell  and  turn  them  into  means  of  at- 
tack, escape,  or  self-destruction. 

At  the  end  of  the  meal  the  officer's  stick  again 
strikes  the  stone  pavement  sharply;  we  rise,  shove 
our  stools  back  under  the  table  shelf,  then  fall  in 
line  behind  another  departing  company,  each  man 
holding  aloft  his  knife,  fork,  and  spoon  which  he 
drops  into  the  proper  receptacles  near  the  door 
where  a  watchful  officer  keeps  careful  tally.  We 

34 


MONDAY    MORNING 

march  back  along  the  stone  corridors,  break  ranks 
at  the  foot  of  the  iron  stairs,  traverse  the  narrow 
gallery,  and  are  soon  in  our  cells  where  we  are 
locked  in;  and  I  begin  to  write  this  journal. 

It  is  curious  what  a  resentful  feeling  overtakes 
one  as  that  iron  grated  door  swings  to  and  is 
double  locked.  I  can  perfectly  imagine  a  high- 
strung  man  battering  himself  against  it  from 
sheer  nervousness. 

Captain  Lamb  has  just  been  to  the  door  of  my 
cell  again.  He  begins  with  a  reprimand. 
"Brown,  I  noticed  you  turning  around  at  dinner; 
that  is  not  allowed.  I  will  let  it  pass  this  time,  but 
don't  let  it  happen  again.  The  rule  is  always, 
'Eyes  front.'  " 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

The  Captain  then  gives  instructions  regarding 
my  next  moves.  It  seems  that  I  am  soon  to  put 
on  coat  and  cap  and  march  to  the  shop,  taking  my 
bucket  if  I  desire  to  empty  it.  The  Captain  ex- 
plains that  he  will  first  pass  along  the  gallery,  un- 
locking the  levers;  then  almost  immediately  re- 
turn, pushing  them  down,  and  that  when  he  pushes 
down  my  lever  I  must  be  ready  to  press  heavily 
against  the  door  so  as  to  get  it  open  quickly;  then 
follow  after  the  others,  and  take  my  place  in  line. 
He  also  gives  instructions  as  to  my  conduct  in  the 
shop.  "I  call  all  my  men  by  their  first  names,  so 
I  shall  call  you  Thomas.  I  allow  my  company  to 

35 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

have  some  talk  in  the  shop.  It  is  not  strictly  ac- 
cording to  rule;  but  my  men  have  the  reputation 
of  being  a  little  hard  to  manage,  and  I  find  they 
get  along  better  if  I  give  them  some  leeway.  So 
you  may  converse  about  your  work;  but  you  must 
be  careful  not  to  talk  loud  or  create  any  disorder, 
and  you  must  shut  up  at  once  in  case  another  offi- 
cer or  a  visitor  comes  into  the  shop.  Also  you 
must  not  leave  your  place  of  work  without  per- 
mission." 

I  again  thank  the  Captain,  and  say  that  I  will 
try  to  mind  my  own  business  and  not  make  any 
more  trouble  than  I  can  help.  He  smiles  rather  a 
grim  smile,  and  replies  dryly  that  he  doesn't  think 
there  will  be  any  trouble,  and  goes  away.  My 
time  for  writing  must  be  nearly  up  for  the  present. 

Yes!  I  hear  a  clicking,  beginning  at  the  far- 
distant  end  of  the  gallery  around  the  corner  to 
my  left.  It  draws  rapidly  nearer  and  I  can  hear 
the  key  turning  in  the  locks.  I  have  put  on  my 
coat  and  cap.  The  Captain  unlocks  my  lever  and 
passes  along  the  gallery  to  the  right.  He  will 
soon  be  back,  so  this  writing  must  be  put  away 
in  the  locker;  then  I  can  stand  ready  and  waiting 
at  the  door.  It  would  be  as  well  not  to  expose 
myself  to  another  reprimand. 

There  is  of  course  another  side  to  the  foregoing  story, 
and  that  is  the  advent  of  Thomas  Brown  as  viewed,  not 

36 


MONDAY    MORNING 

by  himself,  but  by  his  new  companions — the  regular  in- 
mates of  the  prison.  What  did  the  convicts  think  of  it 
all? 

As  it  happens,  two  of  them  were  moved  to  record  their 
impressions,  and  their  accounts  have  come  to  my  hands 
in  a  roundabout  way.  I  can  not  do  better  than  supple- 
ment my  own  story  by  extracts  from  these  papers.  I  do 
not  know  the  writers,  I  do  not  even  know  their  names, 
and  the  stories  were  written  entirely  without  hint  or 
solicitation  from  me.  It  is  natural  that  I  should  think 
them  interesting;  I  hope  that  others  may  find  them  so. 

Here  is  A's  account: 

On  Monday,  a  little  after  10  A.  M.,  a  man  passed 
through  the  front  gate,  and  without  any  ceremony  was 
registered  on  the  book  of  entries  as  Tom  Brown  and  re- 
corded as  No.  33,333x.  After  a  brief  examination  he 
was  conducted  to  the  tailor-shop  where  the  cutaway  was 
changed  for  a  suit  of  prison  gray. 

The  funds  of  Mr.  Brown  being  at  low  ebb,  the  state 
graciously  presented  him  with  a  towel,  a  pair  of  working 
shoes,  and  a  red  bandanna  handkerchief.1 

With  these  meager  possessions  Tom  again  emerged  into 
the  large  yard;  and  the  old  adage,  "What  a  difference 
just  a  few  clothes  make,"  became  very  evident,  for  in 
every  appearance  he  looked  just  like  the  brotherhood 
he  was  about  to  join. 

When  a  new  man  enters,  a  general  whisper  is  always 

1The  writer  is  mistaken,  for  as  a  matter  of  fact  the 
state  was  not  so  generous;  the  handkerchief  was  my  own 
— as  was  also  my  toothbrush. — T.  M.  O. 

37 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

heard  throughout  the  various  shops.  "Well,  here's  a  new 
boarder!"  This  was  applied  to  him  as  he  passed  through 
the  yard  accompanied  by  Captain  D. 

We  all  knew  who  Tom  was,  but  on  the  Sunday 
previous  when  he  outlined  his  intentions  a  silent  compact 
had  been  made — to  consider  him  as  an  ordinary  inmate: 
and  the  promise  was  fulfilled  to  the  letter.  What  our 
thoughts  were — is  an  entirely  different  story. 

B's  account  is  somewhat  more  racy  and  intimate,  and 
contains  some  very  characteristic  touches: 

A  few  comments  in  the  cell  house  on  the  day  of  Tom 
Brown's  arrival  at  Auburn  Prison  to  start  his  self-im- 
posed bit. 

"Hello,  Bill!  There  he  goes.  And  say,  he  just  walks 
with  the  confidence  of  an  old  timer !  Well,  old  pals,  you 
will  have  to  take  your  hats  off  to  him  as  a  game  one,  all 
right!" 

By  this  time  all  the  keepers  in  the  cell  house  look- 
ing through  the  windows.  But  not  with  that  same  old 
smile  they  usually  carry.  Someone  sung  in  a  low  tone 
that  old  time  melody, 

"O  what  has  changed  them?" 

and  the  gang  had  to  take  to  cover;  a  look  from  some  of 
the  sore  keepers  made  it  plain  we  better  move. 

While  he  was  down  getting  dolled  up  in  his  new 
suit  of  gray,  someone  asked  where  the  P.  K.  was;  and 
Jack  replied,  "Why,  he  just  passed  me  over  in  the  alley; 
and  say,  fellows,  he  has  got  so  thin  I  didn't  know  him; 
I  guess  you'll  find  him  over  in  the  jail  office  hiding  behind 
a  broom." 

38 


MONDAY    MORNING 

Someone  gave  us  the  wire  that  Tom  was  coming  up 
the  yard  again,  and  we  made  a  bee  line  for  a  rubber. 
Sure  enough  there  is  Tom,  coming  up  the  line  in  his  new 
college  makeup  and  a  prison  towel  in  his  hand.  All  the 
boys  stood  quiet  and  watched.  In  fact  nine  out  of  ten 
had  a  lump  in  his  throat  too  big  to  swallow.  I  must 
confess  I  got  a  cold  chill  that  ran  down  my  back,  and  it 
jumped  from  limb  to  limb  like  a  cobblestone.  Well,  after 
we  all  came  to,  "our  brave  Tom"  was  locked  in  his  cell, 
I5-2-N.N.W. ;  and  then  the  stoolpigeons  was  put  to 
work  to  watch  who  went  to  speak  with  him. 

These  extracts,  which  are  given  verbatim,  throw  in- 
teresting sidelights  upon  the  attitude  and  state  of  mind 
of  the  prisoners — their  extreme  sensitiveness,  their  in- 
stant response  to  kindness,  real  or  fancied,  their  relations 
to  their  keepers,  their  ready  cheerfulness  and  sense  of 
humor.  As  one  can  see,  there  was  arising  among  them 
at  the  very  outset  something  quite  unexpected — a  deep 
sense  of  gratitude  for  what  they  persisted  in  thinking  a 
great  sacrifice  on  my  part;  an  eager  answer  to  the 
sympathy  from  the  outer  world  which  my  coming  among 
them  typified.  The  lump  in  the  throat  at  the  first  sight 
of  Tom  Brown  clad  as  a  convict  is  significant  of  many 
things.  The  fact  that  they  all  greatly  exaggerated  my 
personal  discomfort  and  in  so  many  ways  gave  me  credit 
where  none  was  due,  is  only  an  evidence  of  their  hun- 
ger for  the  human  relationship,  for  that  sympathy  from 
our  fellowmen  which  we  all  crave  so  intensely,  and  from 
which  convicts  are  very  far  from  exempt.  There  is  no 
need  to  comment  further  upon  these  interesting  extracts. 

It  is  a  real  pity  that  we  can  not  have  as  well  the 

39 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

views  of  the  third  party  in  the  affair — the  keepers. 
Frank  comment  from  them  would  be  also  most  valuable. 
I  only  hope  that  the  one  who,  on  a  certain  occasion,  in- 
vited and  came  very  near  receiving,  personal  violence  by 
ejaculating,  "Damn  fool!"  behind  my  back,  represented 
an  exception.  Unquestionably,  however,  he  did  voice  a 
considerable  amount  of  official  sentiment  within  the 
prison,  as  well  as  much  unofficial  sentiment  outside. 
That  was  so  natural  as  to  be  inevitable.  There  are  al- 
ways those  who  will  misunderstand  one's  motives  and 
actions,  no  matter  how  plain  the  explanation  may  be. 


CHAPTER   IV 

MONDAY  AFTERNOON 

Later  in  the  day;  about  5 :3O,  I  think;  I  have  no  watch 
and  nowhere  does  there  seem  to  be  a  clock  in  sight,  so  I 
am  necessarily  rather  vague  as  to  the  exact  time. 

I  am  again  double  locked  in  my  cell,  this  time  for  the 
night — fourteen  mortal  hours. 

For  me  there  is  plenty  to  do — to  write,  to  read,  to 
think  about;  but  how  about  those  who  do  not  care  for 
reading,  who  write  with  difficulty,  or  who  can  neither 
read  nor  write?  Then  again,  I  look  forward  to  only 
six  nights  in  this  stone  vault;  but  how  about  those  who 
must  look  forward  to  an  endless  series  of  nights,  month 
after  month,  year  after  year,  five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty 
years,  life? 

My  God!     How  do  they  ever  stand  it? 

Until  nine  o'clock,  when  the  lights  will  go  out,  I  am 
my  own  master;  my  own  master  in  a  world  of  four 
feet  by  seven  and  a  half,  in  which  I  am  the  only  inhabi- 
tant. Other  human  beings  are  living  all  about — on  either 
side,  at  the  back,  above,  below;  yet  separated  by  doublf 
thick  stone  walls  from  every  other  living  creature  in  thw 
great  community,  I  am  absolutely  solitary.  I  have  never 
felt  so  curiously,  desperately  lonely.  The  loneliness  in 
the  midst  of  crowds  is  proverbial;  but  the  loneliness  in 

41 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  invisible  human  beings — not  one 
of  whom  do  you  even  hear — that  has  in  it  an  element  of 
heavily  weighted  horror  which  is  quite  indescribable.  It 
can  only  be  felt. 

The  curious  sensation  of  nervous  resentment,  noticed 
this  noon,  is  upon  me  in  greater  force  to-night.  If  I 
were  to  just  let  myself  go,  I  believe  I  should  soon  be  beat- 
ing my  fists  on  the  iron  grated  door  of  my  cage  and 
yelling.  Of  course  I  shall  do  nothing  so  foolish,  but  I 
feel  the  impulse  distinctly.  I  wonder  how  I  shall  stand 
a  week  of  this.  I  must  certainly  keep  my  nerves  under 
better  control,  at  present  they  are  quivering  at  the  slight- 
est sound. 


THIS  has  certainly  been  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting days  of  my  life,  and  the  after- 
noon more  interesting  than  the  morning. 
I  wish  I  could  describe  it  adequately. 

The  interval  between  dinner  and  the  march  to 
the  shop  is  occupied  chiefly  by  writing  this  jour- 
nal ;  but  I  also  have  a  pleasant  call  from  the  Chap- 
lain's assistant,  Dickinson.  He  does  not  bring  me 
the  book  I  selected  this  morning,  but  in  its  place 
another  book  and  some  magazines,  for  none  of 
which  do  I  care.  What  I  do  care  about  is  the 
pleasant  chat  we  have.  Not  many  words  have 
been  exchanged  before  he  drops  the  books  he  is 
engaged  in  distributing  along  the  cells  and  dashes 
off;  soon  returning  with  photographs  of  his  wife 

42 


MONDAY   AFTERNOON 

and  three  charming  children.  He  himself  is  a 
clean-cut,  fine-looking  fellow,  with  honest  blue  eyes 
and  a  good  face — not  a  single  trace  of  the  "Crimi- 
nal" about  him.  He  tells  me  some  of  the  de- 
tails of  his  story,  and  it  is  a  sad  one.  But  his  im- 
prisonment is  now  over;  he  expects  to  go  out  on 
Saturday.  Some  time  ago  he  was  granted  his 
parole  on  condition  of  obtaining  a  job,  and  that 
he  has  now  secured.  He  says  this  prison  experi- 
ence has  been  a  "good  lesson"  to  him.  I  have  no 
doubt  it  has,  nor  that  his  hopes  will  be  fulfilled; 
but  the  pity  of  it!  Why  should  not  a  man  like 
this,  guilty  of  only  a  lesser  crime,  guiltless  of 
criminal  intent,  be  allowed  to  go  on  parole  under 
suspended  sentence,  and  not  have  to  come  to 
prison  at  all?  Why  should  not  he  and  his  wife 
and  children  have  been  spared  these  long  years 
of  separation,  this  bitter  degrading  experi- 
ence, this  almost  irreparable  stain  upon  his 
name? 

At  about  half  past  one  o'clock  the  cells  are  un- 
locked, as  I  have  already  described.  The  Captain 
returns,  pressing  down  the  levers ;  I  push  open  my 
door,  place  my  tin  cup  on  a  small  shelf  at  the  left 
on  leaving  the  cell  and  follow  the  other  men  rap- 
idly along  the  narrow  gallery  and  down  a  short 
flight  of  narrow,  slippery  iron  stairs,  coming  to  a 
halt  at  the  door  opening  into  the  yard.  Here  the 
Captain  places  me  third  in  line  on  the  left,  for  we 

43 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

march  in  double  file.  I  am  flattered  by  the  pro- 
motion, but  possibly  the  man  in  front  of  me  feels 
differently  about  it.  I  hope  he'll  bear  no  grudge ; 
but,  if  he  had  turned  about  and  landed  me  one  be- 
tween the  eyes  that  last  time  I  trod  on  his  heel, 
it  would  not  have  been  surprising.  The  shoes  pre- 
sented me  by  the  state  of  New  York  are  so  stiff 
and  clumsy  that  I  find  it  quite  a  task  to  manage 
my  feet;  it  is  difficult  to  steer  them  properly;  and 
of  course  this  marching  in  close  order  is  some- 
thing quite  new  to  me. 

First  at  half  speed — then  at  a  good  round  pace 
— we  march  out  of  the  north  wing,  wheel  to  the 
right  on  reaching  the  center  walk,  swing  down  the 
length  of  the  yard;  then  turn  to  the  left,  pass 
through  the  building  where  the  buckets  are  emp- 
tied and  washed,  and  halt  where  they  are  placed 
to  dry  and  be  disinfected.  After  a  pause  here  of 
only  a  moment  we  march  on  again  to  the  basket- 
shop. 

Just  as  we  reach  there  and  break  ranks,  the 
young  officer  who  served  as  guide  this  morning 
presents  himself;  and  in  silence  I  am  conducted 
back  up  the  yard  and  again  to  the  Doctor's  office, 
where  my  very  thorough  medical  examination  is 
completed. 

After  the  Doctor  is  through  with  me  I  go  to 
the  hallway  outside  his  office  where  a  number  of 
other  prisoners  are  awaiting  their  turns.  As  my 

44 


MONDAY   AFTERNOON 

officer  has  not  come  back,  and  does  not  do  so  for 
some  time,  there  is  an  opportunity  to  practice 
what  is  apparently  the  most  necessary  virtue  of 
prison  life — patience.  I  take  my  place  along  the 
wall  with  the  other  convicts  and  watch  for  a  chance 
to  open  a  whispered  conversation.  From  where 
I  stand  I  can  look  up  a  short  flight  of  steps  into 
the  front  room  of  the  hospital,  where  there  are  a 
number  of  men  moving  about;  among  them  one 
of  the  city  undertakers.  Then  I  remember  hav- 
ing heard  at  the  front  office,  as  I  came  in  this 
morning,  of  the  sudden  death  of  a  young  prisoner 
last  night  from  pneumonia.  Four  convicts  come 
up  the  stairs,  bringing  a  large,  ominous  looking, 
oblong  receptacle,  which  they  take  to  a  door  on 
my  left.  It  does  not  look  quite  like  a  coffin,  but 
there  is  little  doubt  as  to  its  purpose.  As  the  door 
is  opened,  I  glance  in;  and  there,  covered  with  a 
white  sheet,  is  all  that  remains  of  the  poor  lad — 
the  disgraced  and  discarded  human  tenement  of 
one  divine  spark  of  life. 

A  death  in  prison.  Tears  fill  my  eyes  as  I  turn 
away  thinking  of  that  lonely,  friendless  deathbed; 
thinking  that  perhaps  some  loving  mother  or 
young  wife  in  the  world  outside,  bearing  bravely 
her  own  share  of  shame  and  punishment,  has  been 
struggling  to  keep  body  and  soul  together  until 
her  prisoner  could  come  back  home;  perhaps  at 
this  very  moment  wondering  why  she  has  not  re- 
ceived from  him  the  last  monthly  letter.  And 

45 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

now Can  the  world  hold  any  tragedy  more 

terrible  than  this? 

A  young  negro  prisoner  standing  by,  who  has 
also  looked  into  the  chamber  of  death,  breathes 
a  low  sigh  and  whispers,  "God!  That's  where  I 
wish  I  was !" 

The  convict  next  him,  a  broad-shouldered 
young  chap,  who  whispers  to  me  that  he  comes 
from  Brooklyn  and  gets  out  in  January,  goes  in 
to  ask  some  special  favor  of  the  Doctor.  He 
gives  me  on  the  side  a  most  humorous  and  quite 
indescribable  wink  and  grin  as  his  request  is 
granted.  His  attitude  suggests  that  he  has 
"slipped  one  over"  on  somebody.  He  mounts  the 
steps  to  the  hospital  and  the  young  negro  takes  his 
turn  with  the  Doctor  as  the  coffin,  heavy  now  with 
its  mournful  load,  is  brought  out  from  the  room 
on  the  left.  At  the  same  moment  the  officer  re- 
turns to  my  rescue;  and  I  follow  him  downstairs 
and  out  into  the  fresh  air  and  the  sunlight. 

Comedy  and  tragedy  seem  to  jostle  each 
other  in  prison  even  as  in  the  world  outside.  But 
the  comedy  itself  is  tragic;  while  the  tragedy  lies 
beyond  the  realm  of  tears — in  the  gray  twilight 
region  of  a  suffering  too  deep  for  speech,  where 
sympathy  seems  helpless. 


As  I  now  sit  writing  in  my  cell,  from  out  the  dark- 
ness, loneliness,  and  stillness  about  me  comes  the  sweet 

46 


MONDAY   AFTERNOON 

voice  of  a  violin.  Someone  is  playing  the  melody  of 
Mendelssohn's  Spring  Song,  and  playing  well.  I  won- 
der if  he  knows  that  I  am  near  him,  and  is  trying  to 
send  me  his  message  of  good  will.  One  peculiarity  of 
this  place  is  that  sounds  reach  the  heavily  recessed  door 
of  a  cell  mainly  by  reflection  from  the  outer  wall,  and  my 
ear  is  not  sufficiently  trained  to  know  from  what  direc- 
tion the  sounds  come.  The  invisible  violinist,  wherever 
he  is,  has  an  unusually  good  tone  and  plays  with  genuine 
feeling.  Unfortunately  he  has  not  played  many  bars 
before  more  instruments  join  in — jewsharps,  harmonicas, 
and  other  things.  It  is  an  extraordinary  jumble  of 
sounds — a  wild  pandemonium  after  the  deadly  quiet  of 
a  few  moments  ago.  A  train  blowing  off  steam  at 
the  New  York  Central  station,  immediately  opposite 
our  front  windows,  is  also  contributing  its  quota  of 
noise. 

The  gallery  boy  has  just  passed  along,  filled  my  tin  cup 
with  water  for  the  night,  and  exchanged  a  few  words. 
He  says  that  for  twenty  minutes  each  evening,  from 
six-forty  to  seven,  each  man  may  "do  what  he  likes" 
in  his  cell.  A  cornet  is  the  latest  addition  to  the  noise. 
The  whole  episode  impresses  me  as  being  such  a  mingling 
of  the  pathetic  and  the  humorous  that  I  don't  know 
whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  Consider  the  conditions  which 
make  twenty  minutes  of  such  a  performance  a  boon  to 
man! 

The  gallery  boy  evinces  a  desire  to  strike  up  friendly 
relations;  he  brings  me  a  box  of  matches  in  case  I  want 
to  smoke,  and  offers  to  do  anything  for  me  he  can.  I 
am  not  a  smoker,  but  I  don't  like  to  decline  his  good 
offices;  so  I  stow  away  the  matches  for  future  reference. 

47 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

Let  me  resume  the  thread  of  my  story. 

The  officer  takes  me  from  the  Doctor's  office  to 
the  room  where  the  Bertillon  measurements  are 
taken.  Here  there  is  a  fifth  set  of  questions  to 
answer.  I  have  not  the  slightest  possible  objec- 
tion to  giving  all  the  statistics  the  state  officials 
want;  my  time  is  theirs,  and  there  is  no  possible 
hurry.  I  may  as  well  get  rid  of  a  few  hours,  more 
or  less,  of  my  "bit"  in  this  way  as  in  any  other; 
so  I  shall  not  register  any  kick  even  if  I  am  called 
upon  to  supply  fifty  sets  of  statistics  instead  of 
only  five. 

The  orders  of  the  Bertillon  clerk  are  given  per- 
functorily, with  the  air  of  one  who  is  greatly  bored 
by  the  whole  performance.  Naturally  it  is  not  so 
novel  to  him  as  to  me.  I  remove  my  coat  and  put 
on,  as  they  are  handed  to  me  by  the  assistant,  a 
white  linen  shirt-bosom,  a  very  dirty  collar  of  the 
requisite  size,  and  a  black  coat  and  necktie.  Then 
I  am  photographed — front  view  and  profile.  The 
use  of  the  peculiar  apparel  is,  presumably,  either 
to  make  the  photograph  clearer,  or  to  have  all 
"subjects"  taken  under  similar  conditions  and 
looking  somewhat  as  they  do  when  out  of  prison 
and  in  ordinary  clothes. 

Then  my  finger  tips,  on  both  hands,  are  care- 
fully rolled  one  by  one  in  India  ink,  and  impres- 
sions of  them  taken  on  cards — twice  separately, 
and  twice  all  five  at  once.  This  seems  to  bore  the 
clerk  more  than  the  photographing. 

48 


Then  a  series  of  measurements  from  top  to  toe 
is  taken,  and  every  possible  means  of  identification 
noted  and  registered:  color  of  hair  and  eyes; 
shape  of  head;  characteristics  of  eyes,  nose, 
mouth;  the  scar  received  at  football  thirty-four 
years  ago,  which  I  supposed  was  successfully  con- 
cealed by  my  right  eyebrow;  the  minute  check  on 
the  left  ear  from  a  forgotten  frostbite ;  the  almost 
imperceptible  bit  of  smooth  skin  on  the  back  of 
my  right  hand,  where  a  small  lump  was  once  re- 
moved by  electricity;  no  blemish  or  defect  is  over- 
looked— until  I  begin  to  feel  like  a  sort  of  mon- 
strosity. I  derive  some  satisfaction,  however, 
from  the  fact  that  my  business-like  inquisitor  is 
quite  at  a  loss  to  account  for  six  peculiar  scars 
upon  my  upper  left  arm,  familiar  to  Harvard  men 
of  my  generation.  It  is  some  satisfaction  to  know 
that  my  Alma  Mater  has  not  sent  many  of  her 
sons  to  take  a  post-graduate  course  in  this  institu- 
tion. 

So  complete  and  searching  have  been  the  exami- 
nation and  record  for  identification  that  I  have 
a  sort  of  discouraged  feeling  about  the  future.  It 
occurs  to  me  that  I  may  be  cramped  in  a  choice  of 
further  activities;  and  that  my  chance  of  ever 
gaining  a  good  living  by  honest  burglary  has  been 
considerably  reduced,  if  not  destroyed.  I  com- 
municate this  rather  frivolous  sentiment  to  the 
clerk  who  receives  it  grimly,  and  is  more  bored 
than  ever.  I  feel  properly  snubbed  and  rebuked. 

49 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

Evidently  a  prisoner  should  speak  only  when 
spoken  to,  and  certainly  should  not  venture  to  joke 
with  an  official.  I  shall  take  warning  and  not  of- 
fend again. 

I  wonder  how  my  measurements  differ  from 
those  of  the  average  criminal,  and  how  much  of  a 
rough-neck  my  photograph  will  make  me  look. 

At  last  all  preliminaries  are  completed;  and 
now  I  am  free  to  consider  myself  a  full-fledged 
convict. 

The  young  officer  who  up  to  now  has  been  my 
guide  and  philosopher,  if  not  exactly  a  friend,  con- 
ducts me  down  the  yard  once  again,  duly  delivers 
me  over  to  Captain  Lamb  at  the  basket-shop,  and 
takes  his  final  departure.  The  Captain  leads  me 
at  once  to  a  rough  wooden  table,  about  thirty  feet 
in  front  of  the  raised  platform  on  which  he  sits. 
Here  stands  a  good-sized,  broad-shouldered, 
black-haired  fellow,  working  with  his  back  to  us 
as  we  approach.  He  pauses  as  we  stop  before  his 
table. 

"Jack,"  says  the  Captain,  "this  is  Thomas 
Brown.  Thomas,  this  is  John  Murphy,  who  will 
be  your  working  partner." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Brown,"  says  a  pleas- 
ant voice. 

Looking  toward  my  partner  and  his  out- 
stretched hand,  I  decide  to  venture  another  joke. 
"Captain,"  I  remark,  advancing  my  hand  cau- 

50 


MONDAY   AFTERNOON 

tiously,  "this  may  be  all  right;  but  it's  only  fair 
to  warn  you  that  if  this  gentleman  is  any  relative 
of  the  Boss  of  Tammany  Hall  there  may  be 
trouble." 

A  pair  of  honest  gray  eyes  light  up  with  a 
smile  as  the  owner  says,  "No,  Mr.  Brown,  I'm  no 
relation;  and  what's  more  I  haven't  any  use  for 
him." 

Upon  this  we  shake  hands  cordially.  "Excuse 
me,  Captain,"  I  remark  to  that  officer,  "but  you 
see  I  want  to  be  careful  and  not  run  into  diffi- 
culties of  any  kind." 

The  Captain  smiles  gravely  in  his  turn,  and  in- 
troduces me  to  another  of  the  prisoners  who  has 
approached  at  a  sign  from  the  officer.  He  is  a 
slightly  built,  pleasantly  smiling  young  man  who 
is  to  be  my  boss  in  the  shop,  Harley  Stuhlmiller. 
By  him  I  am  to  be  initiated  into  the  art  of  making 
basket  bottoms ;  and  Murphy  is  to  have  me  as  his 
partner  or  apprentice,  and  see  that  I  make  no  mis- 
takes in  following  the  boss's  instructions. 

So  I  take  off  my  cap  and  coat  and  start  to  work. 
I  do  not  find  it  very  difficult;  for,  curiously  enough, 
over  forty  years  ago  I  learned  something  of  the 
art  of  weaving  baskets.  When  I  was  a  young  lad 
my  family  spent  a  summer  at  a  place  on  the  New 
England  seacoast.  On  the  beach  was  the  tent  of 
an  old  Indian,  who  made  and  sold  baskets;  and, 
having  much  time  on  my  hands,  I  persuaded  the 

51 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

old  fellow  to  teach  me  basket-making.  One  cer- 
tainly never  knows  when  an  odd  bit  of  knowledge 
or  information  may  come  handy;  here  am  I  mak- 
ing use  of  something  learned  two  generations  and 
more  ago,  and  never  practiced  since. 

I  spend  a  really  pleasant  afternoon  learning  my 
job  and  chatting  under  my  breath  with  the  two 
men — my  boss  and  my  partner.  They  give  me 
some  wise  advice  as  to  my  conduct,  some  informa- 
tion as  to  prison  ways,  and  compliment  me  upon 
the  quickness  with  which  I  pick  up  the  basket 
work.  I  explain  about  the  previous  experience 
and  tell  them  not  to  give  me  too  much  taffy.  They 
assure  me  that  what  I  have  done  in  the  short  time 
I  have  been  working  is  really  very  good.  The 
expected  task  for  a  man  and  his  partner  is  five 
bottoms  a  day,  and  I  accomplish  one  and  a  half 
for  a  part  of  the  afternoon.  Stuhlmiller  calls  this 
to  the  attention  of  John,  the  citizen  instructor,  and 
he  smilingly  grunts  approval,  but  suggests  certain 
improvements  in  my  manner  of  work.  Thus,  so 
far  as  the  shop  is  concerned,  I  seem  to  be  a  suc- 
cess. The  convicts  about  me  pay  very  little  at- 
tention to  the  newcomer,  but  I  catch  an  occasional 
smile  and  nod  of  encouragement. 

Along  in  the  afternoon,  about  four  o'clock  I 
should  judge,  work  begins  to  slack  up ;  and  several 
of  the  prisoners  who  have  finished  their  allotted 
tasks  are  walking  back  and  forth.  Each  one  con- 
fines himself  to  such  a  very  short  distance,  that  I 

52 


MONDAY   AFTERNOON 

inquire  of  Murphy  the  reason;  and  he  tells  me 
that  the  boundaries  of  each  man's  walk  are  the 
posts  of  the  building  on  either  side  of  his  bench  or 
table.  This  gives  a  very  restricted  area  for  exer- 
cise, but,  as  it  is  the  only  chance  for  exercise  at 
all,  the  men  make  the  most  of  it. 

At  about  half  past  four  my  partner  proposes 
that  we  knock  off  work  and  clean  up.  By  this  time 
there  is  a  general  cessation  of  labor  about  the 
shop,  and  most  of  the  men  are  sweeping  up  around 
their  tables  and  benches.  Murphy  produces  a 
broom,  and  informs  me  that  when  two  men  work 
together  it  is  customary  to  take  turns  in  cleaning 
up  after  work-hours.  So  at  this  hint  I  take  the 
broom  and  soon  have  the  work  done.  Then  we 
wash  up ;  my  partner  sharing  with  me  his  soap  and 
towel.  I  put  on  my  coat  and  cap  and  await  further 
developments. 

Murphy,  after  replacing  the  soap  and  towel  in 
his  locker,  comes  around  to  my  side  of  our  work- 
bench or  table.  "Say,  Brown,"  he  remarks,  "I 
hope  you  won't  think  me  imposing  on  you  in  any 
way,  but  while  we  work  together  I  intend  to  treat 
you  as  if  I  had  never  seen  or  known  of  you  be- 
fore." 

"Thank  you,  Murphy,"  I  reply,  pleased  at  his 
frankness,  "that  is  exactly  the  way  I  want  to  be 
treated." 

Certainly  nothing  could  be  better  than  the  atti- 
tude of  the  two  men  with  whom  my  work  has 

53 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

brought  me  in  contact.  There  has  been  not  the 
slightest  tinge  of  self-consciousness;  no  trace  of 
servility  or  currying  favor,  absolutely  nothing  ex- 
cept Murphy's  frank  explanation  to  make  me  feel 
that  they  are  not  treating  me  exactly  as  I  asked 
them  yesterday  to  do — as  a  new  man  and  one  of 
themselves. 

After  we  have  sat  around  patiently  and  wearily 
for  a  considerable  time,  the  hour  for  return  to  the 
cell-house  arrives.  The  Captain  gives  the  signal 
to  fall  in.  "Good  night,  Brown!"  "Good  night, 
Murphy!"  and  I  take  my  place  in  the  line.  The 
Captain  counts  us  with  care  while  we  stand  rig- 
idly before  him.  Then  the  cripples,  invalids  and 
poor  old  broken-down  men  start  ahead  of  the 
main  body  to  hobble  wearily  back  to  their  cells. 
Meanwhile  we  able-bodied  men  of  the  company 
march  over  to  the  stands  where  the  buckets  are 
drying,  pause  for  an  instant,  then  swing  up 
through  the  yard,  with  a  tramp,  tramp,  tramp, 
that  is  quite  exhilarating  after  an  afternoon's 
work  in  the  shop. 

We  march  straight  up  the  yard  and  into  the 
basement  door  of  the  main  building  where,  just 
within  the  entrance,  are  placed  some  tables  laden 
with  slices  of  bread.  Following  the  example  of 
the  other  men,  I  grab  a  slice — some  take  two 
slices,  there  is  apparently  no  restriction  as  to 
amount — and  then  climb  the  slippery  iron  stairs 

54 


MONDAY   AFTERNOON 

in  my  heavy  shoes.  As  we  go  along  the  gallery 
the  man  just  behind  me  whispers,  "Well,  Tom, 
how  do  you  like  it?" 

I  turn  and  whisper  laughingly,  "All  right,  no 
kick  coming,"  and  turn  into  my  cell. 

On  the  iron  shelf  outside  stands  my  tin  cup 
filled  with  a  hot  black  liquid — whether  tea  or  cof- 
fee I  don't  know.  What  I  do  know  is  that  the 
odor  is  vicious.  I  hesitate  about  taking  it  into  the 
cell. 

The  gallery  boy  arriving  says,  "Brown,  I  didn't 
know  whether  you  wanted  tea  or  water,  so  I  gave 
you  tea." 

"Thank  you,"  I  rejoin,  "but  I  think  I'll  take 
water."  So  he  brings  back  my  tin  cup  filled  with 
a  liquid  which  if  mild  is  comparatively  harmless, 
and  at  least  does  not  smell  to  heaven.  I  enter  my 
cell,  which  is  shut  and  locked. 

After  a  light  breakfast,  a  lighter  dinner,  and 
the  afternoon's  work,  I  feel  ravenously  hungry — 
so  hungry  that  the  bread  and  water  actually  taste 
rather  good,  even  if  the  bread  is  sour.  To  my 
surprise  I  make  away  with  the  whole  slice,  dip- 
ping each  mouthful  into  the  water  and  eating  as  I 
write;  for  I  have  at  once  taken  up  this  journal  to 
chronicle  the  events  of  the  afternoon  while  they 
are  still  in  mind. 

I  wonder  what  those  greedy  children  at  home 
will  have  for  dinner  to-night.  Or  whether  they 

55 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

will  think  of  this  poor,  hungry  prisoner,  eating  his 
lonely  bread  and  water.  This  morning  my  eldest 
remarked  cheerfully,  "Well,  of  course  we  can 
telephone  you  any  time."  How  little  does  he 
realize  the  reality. 

We  used  to  laugh  when  in  "Pinafore"  they 
sang: 

"He'll  hear  no  tone 
Of  the  maiden  he  loves  so  well; 
No  telephone 
Communicates  with  his  cell." 


I  reminded  the  young  man  of  those  lines  this 
morning. 

No,  I  fear  there  are  few  of  us  who  reflect  very 
much  upon  what  is  remote  from  our  direct  line 
of  vision.  But  there  will  be  at  least  one  of  us 
who  will  do  considerable  reflecting — after  this 
experience. 

I  certainly  do  feel  hungry ! 


As  a  supplement  to  the  foregoing,  our  friends,  A  and 
B,  have  some  further  interesting  passages: 

A:  About  the  first  thing  an  apprentice  learns  here  is 
the  military  step ;  so  a  few  of  us  watched  the  company  to 
which  Tom  was  assigned  as  they  passed  through  the  yard 
from  the  mess-hall  to  the  shop.  As  Tom  marched  by,  it 
became  evident  from  his  brisk  step  that  he  either  learned 


MONDAY    AFTERNOON 

it  at  a  military  academy  or  had  served  time  in  another 
"institution."  * 

The  routine  of  prison  life,  which  possesses  its  good, 
bad  and  indifferent  parts,  can  hardly  be  described  here. 
Suffice  to  say  Tom  adhered  to  it  for  an  entire  week. 


This  is  what  B  has  to  say: 

Tom  Brown's  bed  was  brought  upon  the  third  gal- 
lery, cell  55,  N.W. ;  and  then  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes 
it  was  changed  again,  taken  down  to  cell  15,  N.N.W. 
Well,  this  made  the  gallery  man  on  the  third  feel  a 
little  blue,  for  he  thought  he  would  like  to  have  Tom 
on  his  gallery;  and  we  began  to  kid  him  regarding  his 
tough  luck. 

Well,  to  make  this  long  story  short,  the  gallery  men 
had  their  own  troubles.  Every  second  man  wanted  us 
to  drop  a  note  in  Tom  Brown's  cell.  But  the  stools 
watched;  and  me,  for  one,  would  take  no  chance.  If 
he  got  all  the  notes  that  was  meant  for  him  he  would 
have  no  room  for  his  bed  in  his  cell. 

Well,  when  he  left  the  cell  house  that  day,  after 
dinner,  when  he  got  in  line  with  the  rest  of  the  cons  he 
marched  down  the  yard  like  a  major.  And  make  out  the 
cons  didn't  feel  good!  And  make  out  the  keepers  didn't 
feel  blue! 

The  keepers  wouldn't  look  at  Tom  when  he  was 
looking  their  way;  but  after  he  passed,  yog — yog — what 
a  rubbering  he  got ! 

1  For  fear  that  I  may  be  condemned  upon  purely  cir- 
cumstantial evidence,  I  hasten  to  state  that  neither  of 
these  suppositions  is  correct. — T.  M.  O. 

57 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

So  this  was  the  way  of  the  cell  house  for  one  whole 
week;  and,  believe  me,  it  was  some  week,  indeed. 

They  tell  me  when  he  got  in  the  shop  Jack  Murphy 
handed  him  a  broom.  You  know  Jack  can  be  funny 
when  he  wants  to  be.  Now  the  question  in  mind  is,  "Did 
Jack  give  him  that  broom  to  clean  out  the  shop,  or  did 
he  mean  the  whole  place  needed  a  cleaning  out?"  Well, 
I  guess/  Tack,  himself,  will  have  to  slip  us  that  answer. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE   FIRST  NIGHT 

Still  Monday,  but  later  in  the  evening.  The  hour  is 
about — but  why  attempt  to  specify  the  exact  time?  In 
this  place  there  seems  to  be  no  time — only  eternity. 

Having  finished  in  my  journal  the  account  of  this 
afternoon's  occurrences,  I  shall  continue  to  chronicle  the 
events  of  this  evening  as  long  as  the  light  holds  out,  or 
as  long  as  there  is  anything  to  write  about.  So  I  begin 
where  I  left  off  in  the  last  chapter,  just  after  being 
locked  in  for  the  night,  as  I  sat  writing  and  eating  my 
evening  meal  of  bread  and  water. 


I    RECEIVE  a  call  from  Captain  Lamb  after 
he  has  carefully  counted  all  his  men   and 
locked  us  in  for  the  night.      As  he  turned 
the  key  in  my  lock,  I  was  instructed  to  stand  up 
with  both  hands  on  the  door  and  rattle  it  violently, 
to  show  that  it  was  firmly  secured.    The  Captain 
is  very  pleasant,  and  grows  quite  confidential,  tell- 
ing about  his  experiences  in  the  regular  army  in 
the  Philippines.     He  also  explains  something  of 

59 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

his  ideas  in  regard  to  handling  convicts.  Before 
going  away  he  says  that,  if  I  should  be  taken  sick 
in  the  night,  I  must  rattle  the  door  and  the  officer 
on  guard  will  come  and  take  me  to  the  hospital  if 
necessary. 

He  goes  away  and  I  begin  to  have  that  feeling 
of  lonesome  desolation  I  have  already  attempted 
to  describe.  There  are  some  noises ;  but  they  are 
the  noises  of  tramping  feet  above,  below,  of  clang- 
ing bars  and  grating  locks,  then  of  stealthy  foot- 
falls and  Distant  doors.  Of  the  many  companions 
who  are  living  all  about  me  I  can  see  no  sight — 
hear  no  sound.  If  my  cell  were  big  enough,  I 
should  walk  round  and  round  as  I  have  seen  the 
caged  animals  do  in  menageries.  As  it  is,  if  I  get 
up  from  writing,  I  can  only  hang  at  my  grated 
door,  looking  aimlessly  out.  It  grows  dark  and 
ever  darker  in  the  corridor  outside ;  there  are  few 
sounds  now.  Inside  my  cell  the  electric  bulb  gives 
barely  light  enough  to  read  by.  It  is  horribly 
lonesome. 

Looking  up  from  writing,  I  give  a  start  at  the 
sight  of  a  white  face  and  the  figure  of  a  man  just 
outside  the  grated  door.  Peering  out  through  the 
bars,  so  that  I  can  get  the  light  on  his  face,  I 
recognize  the  Chaplain.  He  puts  two  fingers 
through  the  door,  the  nearest  possible  approach 
to  a  handshake,  and  I  feel  really  grateful  for  a 
kindly  touch  and  the  sound  of  a  friendly  voice.  I 
am  conscious  of  an  almost  insane  desire  to  talk, 

60 


THE    FIRST   NIGHT 

to  pour  forth  words,  as  if  the  bars  of  my  cell  were 
damming  back  the  powers  of  speech. 

The  Chaplain  is  anxious  to  know  how  I  am  get- 
ting along,  and  cheers  me  by  saying  that  all  the 
men  are  greatly  interested  and  pleased.  "They 
understand  what  you  are  trying  to  do  for  them, 
and  appreciate  it,"  he  says.  Then  he  tells  of  one 
prisoner  he  has  just  left  in  his  cell  on  one  of  the 
upper  tiers,  whom  he  found  reading  Schopen- 
hauer. "He  said  he  did  not  know  you,  has  noth- 
ing at  all  to  ask  of  you,  and  will  probably  never 
see  you  to  speak  to;  but  your  action  in  coming 
here  has  somehow  made  him  feel  that  the  pessi- 
mistic view  he  has  had  of  the  world  must  be 
wrong." 

After  some  further  talk,  the  Chaplain  says 
"Good  night,"  and  goes  away.  I  sincerely  hope 
that  he  is  right  in  his  belief;  that  the  men  do  care; 
that,  besides  gaining  the  information  I  came  here 
for,  my  visit  may  be  of  some  interest  and  comfort 
to  these  poor  fellows.  Murphy  said  to  me  to-day, 
"Say,  you've  got  the  boys  all  right."  If  he  and 
the  Chaplain  are  correct,  I  may  get  from  my  ex- 
perience much  more  than  I  expected. 

I  have  already  told  how,  not  very  long  after 
the  Chaplain  leaves  me  and  as  I  sit  writing,  the 
lovely  sound  of  a  violin  floats  into  the  cell.  Then 
come  the  sounds  of  many  other  instruments,  and 
the  noise  of  the  train  at  the  railway  station,  over 

61 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

the  wall  and  across  the  street.  I  have  also  de- 
scribed the  ensuing  pandemonium.  After  twenty 
minutes  of  these  evidences  of  the  human  life  ex- 
isting all  around,  the  noise  ceases  as  suddenly  as 
it  began,  and  there  conies  a  silence  more  pro- 
found than  that  which  preceded  the  musical  ex- 
plosion. Only  an  occasional  cough,  the  sound  of  a 
stealthy  footfall,  the  jar  of  some  iron  door  or  the 
clank  of  distant  bolt  or  bar.  Yet  I  am  conscious 
of  one  curious  sound  which  I  am  unable  to  place 
or  explain.  It  is  like  a  very  delicate  clicking  upon 
iron  and  is  almost  continuous.  I  wonder  whether 
it  is  the  tapping  of  prisoners'  messages  from  cell 
to  cell,  of  which  I  have  heard.  It  would  be  con- 
venient to  know  the  telegraphic  code,  so  as  to 
take  part  in  any  such  conversation.  I  listen  with 
interest  to  the  clicking,  but  it  seems  not  to  change 
its  direction  and  to  have  but  little  regularity.  I 
wonder  what  it  is. 

The  night  officer  has  just  stopped  for  a  moment 
at  the  grating  of  my  cell.  I  ask  him  the  time. 
Seven-twenty.  Good  Lord !  I  thought  it  must  be 
nearly  nine.  I  am  usually  very  good  at  guessing 
time,  but  in  this  place  I  am  utterly  unable  to  make 
any  accurate  calculation.  Just  for  the  experience, 
I'm  going  to  stop  writing  and  lock  up  my  writing 
materials,  to  see  how  it  feels  to  have  nothing  to  do. 

I  take  down  my  paper  and  pencil  again  to  re- 
cord a  most  thrilling  discovery.  I  have  found — 

62 


THE    FIRST   NIGHT 

a  pocket  in  my  prison  coat!  All  day  I  have  wor- 
ried at  the  absence  of  one ;  now  I  find  it — left,  on 
the  inside.  Imagine  the  state  of  mind  when  such 
a  thing  really  produces  almost  a  feeling  of  nervous 
excitement. 

I  simply  must  keep  on  writing  out  of  sheer  des- 
peration. I  have  tried  to  use  up  some  minutes  by 
rearranging  my  clothes,  pulling  up  my  socks,  and 
tightening  my  belt;  I  have  not  yet  investigated  the 
workings  of  my  bed,  as  I  wish  to  leave  that  for  a 
later  excitement. 

From  the  distance  I  catch  the  single  stroke  of 
the  City  Hall  bell,  which  marks  eight  o'clock. 
Another  hour  yet  before  the  lights  go  out;  and 
then  ten  hours  more  before  I  can  leave  this  cell ! 

How  in  the  world  do  they  bear  it — the  men 
who  look  forward  to  long  years  of  imprisonment? 
My  working  partner,  Murphy,  has  a  life  term. 
For  what,  I  wonder?  He  seems  like  such  a  good 
fellow;  and  the  Chaplain  has  just  spoken  of  him 
most  highly. 

What  a  mystery  it  all  is!  And  what  a  com- 
mentary on  our  civilization  that  we  can  do  nothing 
better  with  such  men  than  to  throw  away  their 
lives  and  ruin  them,  body  and  soul.  The  old  ones 
arouse  one's  pity;  but  the  young  men — many  of 
those  in  chapel  yesterday  were  mere  boys. 

God!  What  a  miserable,  shameful  waste  of 
human  life — of  human  energy!  Must  we  not  find 

63 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

some  way  in  which  the  good  there  is  in  these 
broken  lives  can  be  repaired  and  made  useful  to 
society? 

At  last  a  bell,  the  first  signal  for  the  night.  I 
think  it  is  twenty  minutes  before  nine.  As  the 
kindly  gallery  boy  has  brought  me  a  glass  tumbler, 
I  brush  my  teeth  with  a  minimum  of  inconveni- 
ence, wash  my  face,  and  then  investigate  the  work- 
ings of  the  bed.  It  is  loosely  fastened  to  two  iron 
hooks  in  the  wall,  on  the  inside;  and  the  outside 
rests  on  two  legs  which  dangle  in  the  air  vaguely, 
and  will  probably  let  me  down  in  the  night  if  they 
do  not  rest  firmly  on  the  floor  to  begin  with.  After 
manipulating  the  bed  successfully,  I  let  down  the 
mattress  on  top  of  it  and  arrange  the  blankets  as 
well  as  possible. 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  more  before  lights 
out.  It  is  all  very  well  to  look  forward  to  that 
landmark,  but  what  after  that?  What  of  the  ten- 
hour  night  ahead  of  me?  And  this  is  only  the 
first  night  of  six.  Suppose  it  were  the  first  night 
of  six  thousand. 

I  hastily  take  a  sheet  of  paper,  mark  off  a  space 
for  each  day  and  each  night  I  expect  to  be  here, 
and  scratch  off  Monday.  One-twelfth  of  my  pen- 
ance gone  at  any  rate.  I  don't  count  Sunday,  be- 
cause that  will  be  only  half  a  day ;  or  I  will  write 
in  Sunday  at  the  bottom,  as  a  sort  of  separate  af- 
fair. I  hang  this  rough  calendar  upon  the  wall; 

64 


THE    FIRST   NIGHT 

and  then  it  suddenly  occurs  to  me  that  it  is  exactly 
what  I  have  always  read  of  prisoners  doing. 

Oh !    Will  these  lights  never  go  out ! 

I  shall  put  away  this  writing,  and  just  wait. 

Merciful  God!    How  do  they  ever  stand  it? 


Tuesday  morning:  after  breakfast. 


The  first  night  is  over.  They  all  say  it  is  the 
worst.  It  could  hardly  be  called  a  success — con- 
sidered as  a  period  of  rest  and  refreshment;  at 
least  it  did  not  "knit  up  the  raveled  sleeve  of 
care"  to  any  very  great  extent.  At  nine  o'clock 
the  lights  at  last  went  out.  I  was  already  in  bed 
and  waiting,  but  I  was  not  at  all  prepared  for  the 
shock  I  received.  While  there  is  light  in  the  cell, 
the  bars  of  the  door  look  gray  against  the  dark- 
ness outside — and  that  is  bad  enough;  but  when 
the  lights  go  out,  there  is  just  enough  brightness 
from  the  corridor  below  to  change  the  door  into 
a  grating  of  most  terrible,  unearthly  blackness. 
The  bars  are  so  black  that  they  seem  to  close  in 
upon  you — to  come  nearer'and  nearer,  until  they 
press  upon  your  very  forehead.  It  is  of  no  use 
to  shut  your  eyes  for  you  know  they  are  still  there; 
you  can  feel  the  blackness  of  those  iron  bars  across 

65 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

your  closed  eyelids;  they  seem  to  sear  themselves 
into  your  very  soul.  It  is  the  most  terrible  sensa- 
tion I  ever  experienced.  I  understand  now  the 
prison  pallor;  I  understand  the  sensitiveness  of 
this  prison  audience;  I  understand  the  high  ner- 
vous tension  which  makes  anything  possible.  How 
does  any  man  remain  sane,  I  wonder,  caged  in  this 
stone  grave  day  after  day,  night  after  night? 

And  always  there  come  the  sound  of  keys  turn- 
ing and  the  grating  of  iron  hinges  and  bolts  and 
bars.  And  as  if  the  double-locked  levers  were  not 
enough,  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  last  night  a 
triple  lock.  A  long  iron  bar  drops  down  in  front 
of  all  the  cells  on  the  tier;  and  against  that  iron 
bar  rest  the  ends  of  iron  brackets  projecting  from 
the  iron  doors.  So  that  by  merely  unlocking  and 
pressing  down  the  levers  you  cannot  be  set  free; 
the  long  bar  must  be  raised  at  the  end  of  the  gal- 
lery, where  it  is  fastened  by  another  lock  and 
special  key.  This  discovery  seems  to  put  the 
crowning  touch  to  that  desperate  sensation  of  con- 
finement. I  already  hate  the  levers;  I  doubly  hate 
the  lock  and  big  key;  but  no  words  can  express  my 
detestation  of  that  iron  bar. 

However,  just  before  ten  o'clock  I  did  manage 
to  lose  consciousness;  I  recall  the  time  by  the 
sounds  of  the  nine-fifty  New  York  Central  train. 
Even  in  the  midst  of  my  discomfort  I  had  to  smile 
at  the  plight  of  one  who  has  to  tell  time  by  trains 
on  the  Auburn  branch  of  the  New  York  Central. 

66 


THE    FIRST   NIGHT 

I  do  not  know  how  much  I  slept  through  the 
night,  but  I  was  greatly  disturbed  by  the  frequent 
and  pathetic  coughing,  sighing,  and  groaning  from 
other  cells.  It  was  only  too  evident  that  many 
others  were  sleeping  no  better  than  I.  Possibly 
the  delicate  attentions  of  the  night  keeper  going 
his  rounds  and  flashing  his  electric  bull's-eye 
through  the  bars  straight  in  our  faces,  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  Certainly  that  cus- 
tom is  hardly  conducive  to  unbroken  slumbers. 
Apparently,  it  is  considered  necessary  to  do  this 
in  order  to  prevent  suicides.  One  poor  fellow  had 
tried  to  make  away  with  himself  on  the  previous 
night;  such  attempts  are  not  uncommon,  I'm  told. 

Again — what  a  commentary  I 

As  I  had  not  yet  quite  reached  the  point  of 
self-destruction,  the  flashlight  was  distinctly  an- 
noying; it  seemed  always  to  come  just  after  I  had 
succeeded  in  dropping  off  to  sleep. 

And  ever,  as  I  started  awake  again,  the  black- 
ness of  those  horrible  bars  against  the  faintly 
lighted  corridor  I 

At  last,  through  one  of  the  upper  windows  in 
the  outer  wall,  I  detect  the  faint  gray  light  of  the 
coming  dawn.  Each  time  I  open  my  eyes  and  sit 
up  in  bed  the  small  piece  of  sky  to  be  seen  through 
the  grated  door  of  my  cell  seems  a  shade  less 
dark;  and  at  last  I  begin  to  feel  that,  after  all, 
perhaps  God  has  not  forsaken  the  world.  As  the 

67 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

sky  grows  still  brighter,  I  can  distinguish  the 
green  of  the  trees  outside;  and  within,  the  black- 
ness and  the  shadows  gradually  fade  away,  and 
the  terrible  oppression  of  the  night  gives  place 
to  the  confidence  of  a  new  day.  I  listen  with  a 
relief  that  is  almost  pleasure  to  the  familiar 
sounds  of  the  six-o'clock  factory  whistles ;  and  the 
faithful  old  bell  which  has  rung  for  fifty  years  at 
the  Osborne  Works,  and  which  I  think  I  should 
recognize  if  I  were  to  hear  it  in  Central  Africa. 

I  partially  dress,  and  then  fold  up  my  bed  and 
arrange  the  mattress  and  blankets  over  it,  so  as 
to  get  more  room  for  further  evolutions.     The 
night  ache  in  my  head  is  rather  bad  at  first,  but 
cold  water  on  my  face  and  the  back  of  my  neck 
revives  me  greatly;  and  by  the  time  my  toilet  is 
completed  and  I  am  ready  for  the  fray,  I  feel  more 
nearly  like  myself.    Before  I  am  fully  dressed  and 
ready,  the  lights  are  switched  on,  about  six-thirty, 
I  judge;  and  soon  the  sounds  of  keys  and  iron 
hinges  and  bars  and  bolts  are  heard  again;  and 
the  noise  of  shuffling  feef  i?,  the  corridor  below 
tells  that  the  day's  routine  has  begun.1 

The  first  night  has  been  worse  than  I  expected; 
and  I  dare  say  it  will  be  the  worst  of  all,  unless  I 

I 1  have  since  learned  that  I  committed  a  breach  of  the 
rules  every  morning;  one  which  laid  me  open  to  punish- 
ment.   Men  who  awake  before  six-thirty  must  stay  in  bed 
until  the  bell  rings. 

68 


THE    FIRST   NIGHT 

find  the  punishment  cells However,  I  am  not 

yet  quite  certain  that  I  shall  try  those. 

Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  of  the  night 
before.  I  must  throw  off  the  shadows  and  get  a 
fresh  hold.  After  all,  in  some  ways  it  might  have 
been  worse:  the  air  in  my  cell  was  good;  I  had 
more  blankets  than  I  needed;  my  bed  was  not 
very  uncomfortable;  and  there  were  no  vermin. 
This  last  was  really  what  I  dreaded  most.  My 
cell  is  clean  and  well  ventilated;  surely  those  are 
blessings  which  ought  to  counterbalance  much  else. 

So  I  start  the  new  day  with  courage  and  un- 
diminished  interest  in  my  great  experiment. 


One  of  my  fellow  prisoners,  whose  comment  I  quoted 
in  Chapter  II,  makes  the  following  statement  about  the 
condition  of  the  cells  at  Auburn.  "The  cells  on  the 
second  and  basement  tiers  smell  fairly  well;  but  in  sum- 
mer the  stench  from  some  of  the  cells  is  terrible."  Due, 
of  course,  to  long  use,  no  sewage,  and  no  proper  system 
of  ventilation.  In  most  of  the  cells  the  small  square  hole 
which  opens  into  some  crude  sort  of  ventilating  flue  has 
long  ago  been  plugged  to  prevent  the  inroads  of  vermin. 

I  seem  to  have  been  very  fortunate  in  having  a  cell 
where  discomfort  was  reduced  to  a  minimum. 

The  condition  of  some  of  the  cells  I  have  seen  in  Sing 
Sing  Prison  is  unspeakably  bad.  They  are  close,  dark, 
damp,  foul.  To  call  them  unfit  for  human  habitation  is 
to  give  them  undeserved  dignity;  they  are  unfit  for  pigs. 

69 


CHAPTER   VI 

TUESDAY   MORNING 
In  my  cell,  after  dinner ;  Tuesday,  September  30. 


AT  about  seven  o'clock  this  morning  the  long 
iron  bar,  which  locks  the  whole  tier,  is 
raised;  and  the  Captain  pauses  a  moment 
at  my  cell. 

"Good  morning,   Thomas,   how   did  you  get 
through  the  night?" 

"I  didn't  sleep  very  well,  sir." 
"They  seldom  do  the  first  night.    How  are  you 
feeling  now?" 

"Well,    fairly    good    third    rate,    thank   you, 


sir." 


He  leaves  me;  but  soon  returns  along  the  gal- 
lery, unlocking  the  levers  as  he  comes.  Immedi- 
ately after  him  walks  his  trusty,  one  of  the  gallery 
boys,  pressing  down  the  levers  and  letting  us  out 
of  the  stone  caves  where  we  have  spent  the  long 

70 


TUESDAY    MORNING 

night.  I  breathe  a  sigh  of  relief  and  satisfaction 
as  I  swing  open  the  iron  grating  and  come  out 
upon  the  comparative  freedom  of  the  gallery. 

Each  man  grasps  with  his  left  hand  the  handle 
of  his  heavy  iron  bucket  filled  with  the  slops  and 
sewage  of  the  night.  I  do  the  same;  and  steady 
my  steps  by  running  my  right  hand  along  the  iron 
rail  as  I  hurry  down  the  gallery  after  the  others. 
It  is  a  long  journey  to  the  farther  stairs,  but  it  is 
made  cheerful  by  the  smiles  on  the  upturned  faces 
of  the  prisoners  in  the  corridor  below.  When  I 
have  taken  my  place  in  line  at  the  foot  of  the  iron 
stairs,  I  find  further  satisfaction  in  the  nods  and 
winks  of  encouragement  from  the  men  gathered 
about  the  doorway,  at  whom  I  glance  as  much  as  I 
can  without  turning  my  head.  I  rest  my  heavy 
bucket  on  the  ground  while  waiting  for  the  com- 
pany to  complete  its  formation,  taking  meanwhile 
deep  breaths  of  the  refreshing  morning  air.  It  is 
another  beautiful,  sunny  autumn  day  as  we  look 
out  into  the  yard. 

A  sharp  rap  of  the  Captain's  stick  on  the  stone 
pavement,  and  we  stand  at  attention,  the  handle 
of  each  man's  bucket  in  his  right  hand.  Two  more 
quick  raps,  and  we  "short-step"  out  of  the  build- 
ing and  then  "full-step"  down  the  yard.  Our 
route  is  the  same  as  that  of  yesterday  afternoon. 
We  meet  many  other  companies  returning.  We 
march  down  to  the  extreme  southwest  corner  of 
the  prison  inclosure  where  is  the  small  brick 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

building  which  serves  as  a  sewage  disposal  plant. 
It  seems  to  be  very  well  arranged  for  its  purpose. 
As  we  reach  there  our  ranks  divide,  entering  by 
two  doors,  and  we  march  through  almost  at  full 
speed.  I  watch  my  comrades  and  do  exactly  as 
they  do;  remove  the  bucket  cover  upon  entering 
the  building;  empty  the  contents  into  a  large  cir- 
cular stone  basin,  or  hopper,  into  which  a  stream 
of  water  is  constantly  pouring;  pass  on  quickly 
to  a  second  basin  and  fill  my  bucket  at  its  stream 
of  water;  rinse  the  bucket  as  I  walk  along  and 
discharge  the  contents  into  a  third  stone  basin 
with  its  third  stream  of  running  water.  It  must 
be  confessed  that  there  is  a  minimum  of  smell  and 
nastiness;  but  what  a  medieval  system!  The  sew- 
age of  1,400  men  simply  dumped  into  the  river, 
which  flows  just  outside  the  walls,  and  carried 
along  to  poison  all  the  towns  and  villages  down- 
stream. 

After  thus  emptying  and  rinsing  the  buckets  we 
leave  them  to  be  disinfected,  aired  and  dried, 
upon  some  wooden  racks  where  each  company  has 
its  allotted  place.  Then  we  march  back  up  the 
yard,  meeting  many  other  companies  laden  with 
their  buckets  on  the  way  down.  The  march  back 
is  very  pleasant  and  I  wish  it  were  longer,  as  ex- 
ercise in  the  fresh  air  and  sunlight  seems  to  soothe 
the  tired  nerves.  By  the  time  we  are  back  at  the 
north  wing  I  am  feeling  in  good  condition  and 
ravenously  hungry. 

72 


TUESDAY    MORNING 

Arrived  at  the  cell  I  have  another  call  from 
Captain  Lamb.  I  have  found  him  very  pleasant 
and  intelligent;  and  his  men,  so  far  as  I  can  yet 
judge,  seem  to  like  him.  He  has  some  excellent 
ideas,  and  tells  me  that  he  would  like  to  give 
his  company  setting-up  exercises  as  he  once  did; 
but  he  abandoned  them  as  he  received  no  encour- 
agement; on  the  contrary  it  was  considered  that 
they  were  subversive  of  discipline.  This  awful 
fetich,  discipline.  We  most  of  us  do  so  love  it — 
for  others. 

Why  does  it  not  occur  to  somebody  in  author- 
ity that  the  first  and  best  means  of  getting  real 
discipline,  in  the  sense  of  good  conduct,  is  to  give 
these  men  exercise?  Here  they  live,  standing  or 
sitting  listlessly  at  their  work  all  day,  and  shut 
in  their  narrow  cells  fourteen  hours  at  night,  with 
no  chance  to  work  off  their  superfluous  energies 
and  keep  themselves  in  proper  physical  condition. 
The  result  in  very  many  cases  must  be  steady 
degeneration,  not  only  of  body,  but  of  mind  and 
soul  as  well. 

The  Captain  tells  me  that  before  breakfast 
I  should  clean  out  my  cell ;  so  after  he  leaves  me 
I  carry  out  his  instructions  with  the  assistance  of 
the  old  broom  in  the  corner.  I  sweep  the  dust 
out  of  the  cell  into  a  corner  of  the  entrance;  and 
the  lever  locks  me  back  into  the  cell  as  I  shut  the 
door  after  the  job  is  completed. 

This  has  not  been  long  done  before  the  click- 

73 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

ing  of  the  levers  begins  again  in  the  distance. 
Every  time  we  march  to  meals  the  clicking  begins 
around  the  corner  to  my  left  and  we  march  to  the 
right ;  every  time  we  go  to  the  shop  the  clicking  be- 
gins on  my  right  and  we  march  to  the  left.  I 
am  beginning  to  catch  on  to  these  various  com- 
plications. Also  to  learn  the  etiquette  of  dress. 
When  we  go  to  breakfast  we  wear  coats  but  no 
caps;  to  the  shop,  both  caps  and  coats;  to  dinner, 
neither.  Waistcoats  seem  to  depend  upon  the 
taste  and  fancy  of  the  wearer.  I  have  worn  mine, 
so  far,  only  in  the  evening — for  warmth. 

Marching  to  breakfast  I  find  myself  by  the 
side  of  a  young  fellow  who  is  conspicuous  among 
the  prisoners  by  the  use  of  a  blue  shirt  with  col- 
lar and  necktie.  He  is  tall  and  good-looking, 
with  an  air  of  refinement  which  is  appealing. 

I  make  no  breaks  upon  the  march.  I  shuffle 
my  feet  along  the  stone  corridor  like  the  rest,  as 
we  move  slowly  forward;  letting  other  companies 
who  have  the  right  of  way  go  in  ahead  of  us. 
Then  when  our  turn  comes  we  march  more  rap- 
idly, changing  to  single  file  as  we  near  the  mess- 
room.  As  the  Captain  has  directed  me,  I  fall 
in  behind  my  blue-shirted  companion  and  have 
my  right  hand  on  my  left  breast  in  ample  time 
to  salute  the  P.  K.  who,  as  at  yesterday's  dinner, 
stands  at  the  entrance  to  the  mess-hall. 

Arrived  at  my  place,  which  is  now  in  the  cen- 
74 


TUESDAY    MORNING 

ter  of  one  of  the  long  shelves  or  tables,  I  find 
waiting  for  me  a  large  dish  of  oatmeal  porridge, 
a  bowl  one-third  full  of  the  thinnest  of  skimmed 
milk,  two  thick  slices  of  bread,  and  a  cup  of  the 
dark  fluid  we  had  yesterday  and  which  is  supposed 
to  be  coffee,  but  which  I  learn  is  called  "bootleg" 
by  the  prisoners — presumably  because  old  boots 
is  the  only  conceivable  source  of  its  taste  and 
smell.  Judging  by  the  samples  I've  had,  the 
hypothesis  does  not  seem  untenable.  The  taste 
is  quite  as  bad  as  the  smell,  as  it  is  drunk  without 
milk  or  sugar,  and  there  is  no  escape  from  drink- 
ing some  of  it,  as  it  is  the  only  liquid  on  the  table. 
The  bread  is  known  as  "punk" — a  name  not  so 
strikingly  appropriate  as  the  other. 

I  can  see  no  excuse  for  bad  coffee;  for  good 
coffee  can  be  made  in  large  quantities,  as  some 
railroad  refreshment  rooms  can  testify.  Tea  is 
a  different  matter.  I  do  not  believe  that  good  tea 
can  be  made  except  in  small  quantities.  If  I  were 
to  suggest  to  the  prison  authorities,  it  would  be 
cocoa  instead  of  tea,  and  coffee  should  be  drink- 
able at  least. 

George,  one  of  the  gallery  boys,  has  presented 
me  this  morning  with  a  small  package  of  sugar 
wrapped  in  newspaper;  but,  before  I  have  a 
chance  of  deciding  whether  it  is  safe  to  transfer 
it  from  my  pocket  to  the  oatmeal,  my  friend  in 
the  blue  shirt,  seated  on  my  left,  slides  a  small 
yellow  envelope  toward  me.  I  turn  my  eyes  and 

75 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

head  sufficiently  to  see  him.  He  is  staring  straight 
ahead  of  him,  and  without  moving  his  lips  or  a 
muscle  of  his  face  gives  a  low  whisper,  "Sugar." 
I  turn  back  my  head  and  in  a  voice  as  low  as  I 
can  manage  and  with  my  lips  moving  as  little 
as  possible  mutter,  "Thank  you."  I  have  had  my 
first  introduction  to  the  motionless  language  of 
the  prisoners. 

The  sugar  makes  the  oatmeal  palatable,  and  I 
breakfast  very  well  on  that  and  the  bread  soaked 
in  what  milk  I  have  left  over  from  the  porridge. 
I  had  forgotten  the  rule  about  no  bread  being 
left  on  the  table  until  my  new  friend  reminds  me 
of  it  by  pointing  to  my  two  slices  and  then  to  the 
approaching  waiter.  I  promptly  toss  one  of  my 
slices  into  that  functionary's  bucket  as  he  passes 
by,  and  go  on  with  my  breakfast.  I  feel  guilty 
in  taking  my  neighbor's  sugar,  when  I  have  some 
of  my  own  in  my  pocket,  but  reflect  that  mine 
can  be  saved  for  another  occasion  and  shared 
with  him.  I  find  myself  wondering  if  the  sugar 
I'm  eating  has  been  honestly  come  by.  Not  that 
I  suspect  my  blue-shirted  friend  of  doing  any- 
thing wrong;  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  in  my  pres- 
ent condition  of  mind  I  should  enjoy  it  better  if 
I  knew  it  had  been  stolen.  I  feel  as  though  I 
would  gladly  annex  almost  anything  from  the 
state  of  New  York  that  I  could  lay  my  hands  on, 
provided  I  could  do  so  without  too  much  risk  of 
getting  caught.  I  hope  it  will  be  considered  that 

76 


TUESDAY    MORNING 

I  am  not  now  condoning  dishonesty;  I  am  merely 
trying  to  explain  a  state  of  mind. 

The  silent  meal  finished,  we  return  to  our  cells, 
where  I  now  have  a  call  from  my  friend  in  the 
blue  shirt.  It  seems  that  he  is  a  trusty  of  the 
"box  office";  and  has  charge  of  the  orders  for 
groceries  and  their  distribution,  and  his  name  is 
Roger  Landry.  Each  convict  is  allowed  to  spend 
three  dollars  a  month  in  groceries,  tobacco  and 
other  luxuries — that  is  if  he  is  fortunate  enough 
to  have  that  amount  of  money  to  his  credit.  As 
his  wages,  at  one  cent  and  a  half  a  day — the 
regular  rate — could  only  amount  to  thirty-seven 
and  a  half  cents  a  month,  it  is  obvious  that  a 
prisoner  must  have  some  outside .  resources  to 
allow  him  to  spend  three  dollars.  So  the  pris- 
oners who  are  better  off  outside  the  prison  have 
the  luxuries  when  they  get  inside;  and  the  poor 
fellow  who  has  nothing  can  get  nothing.  It 
seems  to  be  a  rather  literal  rendering  of  the 
Scripture,  "To  him  who  hath  shall  be  given." 
Certainly  from  him  who  hath  not  is  taken  away 
about  everything  possible — his  liberty,  his  capacity 
to  earn  money,  his  family,  friends,  and  incidentally 
his  self-respect. 

The  way  in  which  a  man's  family  and  friends 
are  taken  away  seems  superlatively  cruel.  A 
prisoner  gets  no  wages  for  his  work  except  his 
board,  lodging,  clothes,  and  the  ridiculous  cent 

77 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

and  a  half  a  day.  In  the  meantime  his  wife  and 
children  may  be  starving  on  the  streets  outside; 
he  is  powerless  to  help  them,  and  can  write  only 
one  letter  a  month.  In  other  words,  as  a  prisoner 
once  said  to  me  bitterly,  "At  just  the  time  we  need 
our  friends  the  most,  they  are  taken  away  from 
us.  We  must  write  our  one  letter  a  month  to  a 
wife,  a  mother,  or  some  member  of  the  family 
having  special  claim.  Our  friends  do  not  hear 
from  us ;  they  think  we  are  hard  and  do  not  care — 
we  are  criminals;  so  they  drop  us  and  we  are  for- 
gotten." J 

All  this  Landry  explains  or  suggests;  and  as 
we  grow  confidential  he  tells  me  quite  frankly  of 
his  own  troubles  and  how  he  comes  to  be  here; 
the  mistakes  he  had  made,  his  keen  desire  and 
strong  intention  to  do  better  when  he  goes  out 
and  to  make  good.  "My  father  has  stuck  by 

1  Jack  Murphy  gives  me  the  following  information : 
When  a  new  man  arrives  in  prison  and  is  assigned  to  a 
shop  the  waiter  or  captain  puts  his  name  on  a  requisition 
letter  list.  If  this  inmate's  surname  begins  with  A,  he 
gets  his  monthly  letter  on  the  first  Sunday  of  each  month ; 
if  his  name  begins  with  some  other  letter,  he  gets  his 
monthly  letter  on  some  other  Sunday.  If,  upon  A's  ar- 
rival, his  Sunday  has  just  passed,  he  has  to  wait  until  the 
first  Sunday  of  the  next  month  comes  around ;  unless  some 
one  puts  him  wise  on  how  to  write  to  the  warden  for  an 
extra  or  special  letter. 

78 


TUESDAY    MORNING 

me,"  he  says;  "and  now  I  intend  to  stick  by 
him." 

After  about  half  an  hour  spent  in  the  cells, 
from  eight  to  eight-thirty,  we  are  off  to  work. 
Again  the  keys  are  turned  in  the  locks,  again  the 
clicking  of  the  levers,  again  the  hurried  march 
along  the  gallery,  again  my  heavy  shoes  clump 
down  the  iron  stairs,  again  we  form  in  the  sunny 
doorway,  again  we  march  down  the  yard  to  the 
basket  shop. 

As  we  break  ranks  my  partner,  Murphy,  comes 
forward  with  a  cheerful  smile.  "Well,  Mr. 
Brown,  how  do  you  feel  to-day?" 

"Fine,"  I  respond  briefly,  and  we  step  to  our 
working  table. 

"How  did  you  sleep?" 

"Not  very  well;  I  kept  waking  up  all  night." 

"Well,  don't  worry.  It's  always  like  that  the 
first  night;  you'll  sleep  better  to-night." 

And  with  this  comforting  assurance  we  hang  up 
our  coats  and  caps  and  start  to  work. 

The  convict  instructor,  Stuhlmiller,  comes  to 
our  table.  "Well,  Brown,  how  did  you  like 
bucket  duty?" 

"Oh,  I've  had  to  do  worse  things  than  that," 
I  reply.  "I  don't  know  that  I  should  select  that 
particular  job  from  preference;  but  somebody 
has  to  do  the  cleaning  up.  That's  the  reason  I 
was  once  mayor  of  Auburn." 

79 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

The  other  two  are  greatly  amused  at  this  view 
of  official  position;  and  so  we  start  pleasantly 
with  our  basket-making. 

Before  the  morning  has  far  advanced  the  Cap- 
tain conies  over  to  me  and  in  a  low  voice  asks 
would  I  like  to  be  sent  out  with  a  gang  to  help 
move  some  coal.  I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  is 
involved,  but  I'm  keen  for  anything.  I  am  here 
to  learn  all  I  can.  So  I  answer  briefly,  "Sure," 
and  he  returns  to  his  desk.  Presently  I  hear  the 
name  of  Brown  called  out  with  those  of  Murphy 
and  eight  others.  Murphy  says,  "Come  on, 
Brown,  we'll  get  some  fresh  air  1"  I  start  at  once 
for  the  door,  but  Murphy  pulls  me  back;  we  have 
to  be  lined  up,  counted,  ten  of  us,  and  duly  de- 
livered to  another  officer  who  takes  us  in  charge. 

There  are  two  heavy  cars  of  coal,  it  seems,  to 
be  moved  up  grade  to  the  coal  pile;  and  as  the 
prison  possesses  no  dummy  or  yard  engine,  this 
has  to  be  done  by  hand  labor.  It  seems  singu- 
larly unintelligent  to  have  things  so  arranged;  but 
for  the  present  it  is  all  the  better  for  me,  as  it 
serves  well  for  exercise.  A  block  and  tackle  is 
rigged  up  and  we  have  repeated  tugs  of  war,  dur- 
ing which  I  get  my  hands  very  grimy  and  receive 
a  number  of  friendly  admonitions  not  to  work  too 
hard.  There  is  also  the  offer  on  the  part  of  a 
pleasant  young  negro  to  lend  his  leather  mittens. 

"Thank  you,"  I  say,  "but  I  think  you  need 
80 


TUESDAY    MORNING 

them  more  than  I  do."  (It  was  stupid  of  me  not 
to  give  him  the  satisfaction  of  doing  this  slight 
service.) 

The  men  on  the  coal  gang,  in  view  of  their 
heavy  and  disagreeable  work,  are  allowed  to  talk, 
it  seems;  and  they  certainly  make  good  use  of 
this  privilege.  There  were  several  negroes  among 
the  lot,  and  they  kept  us  all  in  roars  of  laughter. 
In  fact  it  was  as  cheery  and  jolly  a  lot  of  fellows 
as  one  could  find,  joking  about  their  work,  and 
about  their  breakfast,  and  joshing  each  other  in 
the  best  of  tempers.  While  we  were  waiting  to 
get  things  arranged  for  the  second  car,  one  of  the 
men  who  works  in  our  shop  good  naturedly  dis- 
posed of  much  of  his  week's  allowance  of  chewing 
tobacco  to  the  crowd. 

During  all  these  proceedings  I  stick  pretty  close 
to  Murphy,  both  that  I  may  make  no  mistakes, 
and  because  I  am  already  getting  to  have  a  great 
liking  for  my  sturdy  partner.  Yesterday  I  was 
on  my  guard  with  him  and  I  think  he  was  quietly 
sizing  me  up;  but  to-day  there  is  an  absence  of 
restraint  and  a  pleasant  feeling  of  comradeship 
growing  up  between  us,  which  is  not  lessened  by 
the  discovery  that  we  both  like  fresh  air  and  ex- 
ercise. Poor  fellow!  he  gets  little  enough  of 
either.  The  forty  minutes  spent  in  the  vigorous 
tugs  of  war  with  the  coal  cars  start  an  agreeable 
glow  of  health  and  spirits  in  both  of  us. 

After  the  coal  job  is  finished  I  am  for  going 
81 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

back  at  once  to  the  shop,  which  is  close  at  hand, 
but  Murphy  halts  me  again.  "Hold  on,  Brown, 
we  can't  go  back  just  yet."  It  seems  that  we  must 
again  line  up  and  be  counted;  then  we  are  es- 
corted by  the  officer  temporarily  in  charge  of  us 
back  into  the  shop,  where  we  are  once  more 
counted  before  we  return  to  our  regular  places. 

In  order  to  make  up  for  lost  time  Murphy  and 
I  work  steadily  on  our  basket  bottoms;  he  sug- 
gesting that  we  each  watch  the  other's  work,  to 
see  whether  we  are  keeping  the  sides  even.  A 
mistake  is  easier  to  notice  across  the  table  than 
in  your  own  work  closer  at  hand.  My  fault  seems 
to  be  to  pull  the  withes  too  tight,  making  the 
sides  somewhat'  concave ;  while  Murphy  has  just 
the  opposite  fault — he  makes  his  sides  too  con- 
vex. So  I  watch  his  work  and  he  watches  mine, 
and  all  things  go  on  very  agreeably. 

At  one  stage  in  the  morning's  proceedings  I 
forget  where  I  am,  for  the  moment,  and  begin  to 
whistle ;  but  a  swift  and  warning  look  from  Mur- 
phy startles  me  into  silence. 

"Look  out,"  he  warns  me,  "whistling's  not  al- 
lowed. You'll  get  punished  if  you  ain't  careful." 

"Is  a  whistling  prisoner  worse  than  a  whistling 
girl?"  I  ask;  but  I  see  that  my  partner  is  not 
acquainted  with  the  proverb,  so  I  repeat  it  to 
him: 

"Whistling  girls,  like  crowing  hens, 
Always  come  to  some  bad  ends." 


TUESDAY    MORNING 

He  is  much  amused  at  this  sentiment,  despite 
its  imperfect  rhyme,  and  asks  me  to  repeat  it  so 
that  he  can  learn  it. 

As  we  are  working  busily  away,  I  perceive  a 
sudden  commotion  over  at  the  western  end  of  the 
shop.  One  of  the  poor  old  prisoners,  those 
mournful  wrecks  of  humanity  of  which  our  com- 
pany has  its  full  share,  has  fainted,  and  lies  cold 
and  white  on  the  stone  floor.  It  is  pleasant  to  see 
how  tenderly  those  about  him  go  to  his  help,  raise 
the  poor  old  fellow,  seat  him  in  one  of  the  rough 
chairs — the  best  the  shop  affords — and  bathe  his 
forehead  with  cold  water.  It  is  also  pleasant  to 
hear  the  words  of  sympathy  which  are  passed 
along  from  one  to  another. 

In  due  time  a  litter  is  brought;  the  pitiful  frag- 
ment of  humanity  is  placed  gently  upon  it,  and  is 
carried  out  of  the  shop  into  which  he  will  prob- 
ably never  return.  The  look  on  his  face  is  one 
not  easy  to  forget,  in  its  white  stare  of  patient 
suffering.  It  seemed  to  typify  long  years  of  stolid 
endurance  until  the  worn-out  old  frame  had  simply 
crumbled  under  the  accumulated  load. 

There  may  be  another  lonely  deathbed  in  the 
hospital  to-night.  No  wife  or  child,  no  friend  of 
any  sort  to  smooth  the  pillow  or  to  close  the  eyes. 
Alas,  the  pity  of  it! 

But  the  sight  is  evidently  no  new  one  to  my 
comrades.  A  few  minutes  only  and  the  shadow 

83 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

has  passed.  There  is  even  apparent  an  air  of 
anxiety  lest  we  dwell  too  much  on  the  mournful 
episode.  It  will  not  do  to  think  of  death  here; 
anything — anything  but  that1 

It  must  be  at  about  half-past  eleven  that  a 
certain  air  of  restlessness  pervading  the  shop 
shows  that  dinner  time  is  approaching.  Murphy 
goes  for  his  soap  and  towel.  "Come  on,  Brown, 
and  wash  up." 

"I'm  sorry,  I  forgot  and  left  my  soap  and  towel 
in  my  cell." 

"Well,  never  mind,  come  and  use  mine." 

So,  raising  my  hand  for  the  Captain's  permis- 
sion to  leave  my  place,  I  join  Murphy  at  the  sink, 
and  again  we  use  his  soap  and  towel  in  common. 
My  partner's  treatment  of  me  is  certainly  very 
satisfactory;  there  is  just  enough  of  an  air  of 
protection  suitable  for  a  man  who  knows  the 
ropes  to  show  toward  his  partner  who  does  not, 
combined  with  an  open-hearted  deference  to  an 
older  man  of  wider  experience  that  somehow  is 
extraordinarily  pleasant. 

Before  going  back  to  the  cell-house  we  march 
first  to  the  place  where  we  left  the  buckets  this 
morning  before  breakfast.  Each  man  secures  his 
own  bucket,  which  is  marked  with  the  number  of 
his  cell;  then  we  go  swinging  up  the  yard,  break 
ranks  at  the  side  door  of  the  north  v.ing,  up  the 
stairs,  traverse  the  long  gallery,  and  so  to  my 

84 


TUESDAY    MORNING 

cell  around  the  corner.  It  begins  to  have  a  cer- 
tain homelike  association;  but  I  do  dislike  having 
to  close  the  grated  door  and  lock  myself  in  every 
time. 

The  gallery  boy  has  been  most  attentive.  I  find 
a  rack  for  my  towels  and  a  mirror  added  to  the 
cell  equipment;  also  he  has  promised  me  a  better 
electric  light  bulb.  There  are  two  gallery  boys, 
I  find;  one  is  George,  the  other  is  Joe.  George 
is  Captain  Lamb's  trusty,  and  serves  in  the  shop 
as  well  as  the  gallery.  He  has  been  the  one  who 
has  added  my  new  furnishings.  Joe  I  see  only 
when  I  am  in  my  cell ;  and  I  do  not  know  where  he 
works.  He  brings  me  water  and  has  been  most 
genial. 

There  seems  to  be  about  half  an  hour  at  noon 
between  the  shop  and  the  mess-hall.  As  soon 
as  I  am  back  in  my  cell  I  remove  my  cap  and  coat 
and  "slick  up"  for  dinner.  Then  I  chat  with  any 
of  the  trusties  that  happen  to  drift  along  to  my 
cell.  One  of  them  brings  me  a  book  which  a 
prisoner  on  our  gallery  is  sending  to  me.  It  is 
Victor  Hugo's  "Ninety-Three."  Opening  it  I 
find  a  note.  The  writer  begins  by  saying  that 
he  had  found  the  book  interesting  and  hoped  I 
would,  and  then  adds,  "Some  of  the  guards 
laughed  at  you  when  you  passed  this  morning. 
I  know  it  is  a  hard  proposition  you  are  up  against; 
but  say,  stick  it  out!  I  only  wish  I  could  help 

85 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

you,  and  I  am  voicing  the  sentiments'  of  all  the 
boys  who  work  in  the  school." 

Generous  in  him  to  run  the  risk  of  punishment 
in  order  to  send  me  this  word  of  encouragement. 

We  march  to  dinner  in  the  same  order  as  at 
breakfast,  and  I  find  myself  again  next  to  the  blue- 
shirted  Landry.  I  like  his  looks  and  his  per- 
sonality. It  is  curious  how  one  can  get  an  effect 
of  that,  even  under  the  rigid  and  unnatural  de- 
meanor which  the  discipline  engenders.  There  is 
a  dapper  little  chap  who  leads  the  right  line  of 
our  company  to  whose  back  I  have  taken  a  great 
liking;  some  day  I  hope  to  get  acquainted  with 
his  face. 

Our  dinner  is  mutton  stew,  which  is  really 
good.  I  had  been  told  at  the  shop  in  the  morn- 
ing what  the  bill  of  fare  would  be;  for  as  one 
week's  dietary  is  exactly  the  same  as  all  other 
weeks,  you  can  calculate  with  accuracy  upon  every 
meal.  I  eat  my  dinner  with  peculiar  relish  after 
our  morning  struggle  with  the  coal  car. 

Arrived  back  at  the  cell,  Joe,  the  other  gallery 
boy,  stops  to  chat,  after  he  has  dispensed  water 
along  the  tier.  "Say,  Brown,"  he  begins,  "do 
you  know  after  the  talk  you  give  us  up  in  chapel 
on  Sunday  there  was  some  of  us  didn't  believe  you 
really  meant  to  come  down  and  live  with  us. 
Then  they  thought  if  you  did  come  you'd  manage 
to  get  up  to  the  Warden's  quarters  for  supper  and 

86 


TUESDAY    MORNING 

a  bed.  But,  say,  when  the  boys  see  you  marchin' 
down  with  your  bucket  this  mornin' — they  knew 
you  meant  business!" 

Then  the  youngster  puts  his  face  up  close  to 
the  bars,  squints  through  them  admiringly,  looks 
me  all  up  and  down  from  head  to  foot,  and 
breaks  out  with:  "Gee!  You're  a  dead  game 
sport!" 

On  the  whole  I  think  that's  by  far  the  finest 
compliment  I  ever  had  in  my  life. 


CHAPTER    VII 

TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

In  my  cell,  Tuesday  evening,  September  30. 


LAYING  aside  my  journal  this  noon,  I  don 
my  coat  and  cap  and  stand  ready  at  the 
cell  door.  The  Captain  passes  by,  un- 
locking the  levers;  then  repasses,  pushing  them 
down,  and  I  am  ready  to  fall  in  line  as  usual; 
but  one  of  the  gray  figures  stops  suddenly  and 
whispers  to  me,  "Your  cup!  You've  forgotten 
your  cup!"  So  I  create  a  momentary  halt  and 
confusion  in  the  gallery  as  I  dash  back  into  the 
cell  to  get  my  tin  cup  and  out  again,  leaving  it 
on  the  shelf  at  the  entrance.  We  traverse  the 
gallery,  descend  the  iron  stairs,  line  up  at  the 
door,  march  first  slowly  then  rapidly  down  the 
yard,  through  the  sewage  disposal  building  to 
the  bucket  stands;  and  so  to  the  basket-shop 
again. 

"Well,  Brown,  how  did  you  enjoy  your  dinner, 
88 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

good?"  This  question  is  my  partner's  afternoon 
greeting. 

"Good !  I  should  say  it  was  I  I'd  like  to  tackle 
another  car  of  coal  this  afternoon  to  give  me 
such  an  appetite.  No,  on  second  thoughts,  not 
this  afternoon — to-morrow  morning.  I  don't 
think  I'd  better  get  up  much  of  an  appetite  with 
nothing  but  bread  and  water  ahead  of  me." 

Murphy  laughs.  "Well,  we've  got  two  bot- 
toms each  to  do  this  afternoon,  to  make  up  for 
our  exercise  this  morning;  so  we  must  hustle  up 
and  get  'em  done." 

So  we  both  start  basket-making;  he  joking  at 
my  efforts  to  keep  up  with  him,  and  I,  in  a  futile 
attempt  to  do  so,  "working  like  a  race-horse," 
as  he  expresses  it.  With  pleasant  chat  the  time 
passes  quickly.  The  strangeness  of  my  situation 
is  beginning  to  wear  away;  and  the  men  are  get- 
ting over  their  aloofness  as  they  see  that,  in  Joe's 
words,  I  mean  business;  and  also  see  how  well  I 
get  along  with  my»partner  and  my  boss.  The  lat- 
ter, the  smiling  Stuhlmiller,  drops  round  to  our 
table  frequently;  makes  valuable  and  friendly 
criticism  and  suggestion  as  to  my  work,  by  which 
I  try  to  profit;  and  incidentally  tells  many  things 
which  both  directly  and  indirectly  throw  valuable 
light  upon  the  life  here.  As  a  workman  I  must 
pay  my  tribute  of  admiration  to  Stuhlmiller;  his 
small,  delicate  hands  with  strong,  pliable  fingers 
are  made  for  craftsmanship.  It  gives  positive  de- 

89 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

light  to  see  him  take  hold  of  the  weaving,  to 
show  me  or  someone  else  how  it  should  be  done. 
There  are  the  elements  of  the  real  artist  of  some 
sort  in  that  chap.  What  a  pity  to  have  these 
rare  qualities  wasted  in  prison ! 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  a  party  of  visi- 
tors is  shown  through  the  shop  by  the  Warden 
in  person.  It  is  only  this  evening  that  I  have 
learned  all  the  facts  of  this  incident,  as  I  was  so 
busy  working  that  I  never  noticed  the  party  at 
all;  although  they  walked  by,  only  a  few  feet 
away,  passing  directly  between  me  and  the  keeper. 
This  is  the  story  as  I  get  it  first  hand,  from  the 
Warden  himself. 

It  seems  that  some  newspaper  men  from  New 
York  were  in  town  to-day  and  were  most  anxious 
to  see  Tom  Brown  at  work.  The  strict  order 
that  everything  at  the  prison  was  to  go  on  exactly 
as  usual  forbade  their  interviewing  me,  or  even 
having  me  pointed  out;  but  there  was  nothing  to 
prevent  their  being  shown  over  the  prison  in  the 
ordinary  way.  The  Warden,  who  had  returned 
from  Albany,  thinking  he  would  like  to  take  the 
opportunity  of  himself  seeing  his  "new  boarder" 
at  work,  offered  to  conduct  them.  So  down 
through  the  yard  they  all  came  and  in  due  course 
reached  the  basket-shop. 

"This  is  the  place  where  Tom  Brown  is  work- 
ing," remarked  the  Warden;  "but,  gentlemen, 

90 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

please  remember  you  are  not  to  speak  to  him  or 
even  seem  to  give  him  special  notice." 

So  they  entered  the  shop  and  leisurely  made 
their  way  through;  the  Warden  exchanging  a 
word  or  two  with  the  Captain  as  he  went  by,  and 
all  of  them  looking  curiously  at  the  various 
basket-makers  within  sight. 

After  they  had  passed  out  of  the  shop  at  the 
farther  end,  one  of  the  visitors  said, 

"But,  Warden,  I  didn't  see  him." 

"Neither  did  we,"  chimed  in  the  rest. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  laughed  the  Warden,  "this 
is  certainly  one  on  me;  for  I  looked  everywhere 
and  I  couldn't  find  him  myself." 

It  was  true ;  the  whole  party  had  passed  within 
twenty  feet  of  me,  and  not  one  of  them — not 
even  my  intimate  friend — had  recognized  me. 

"But  I'm  very  sure  he's  there,"  continued  the 
Warden;  "at  any  rate  I  can  verify  it  at  my 
office." 

So  they  returned  to  the  main  building  and 
found  out,  sure  enough,  that  Thomas  Brown  was 
duly  registered  in  the  basket-shop. 

Two  of  the  visitors  insisted  upon  returning; 
they  had  known  me  very  well  by  sight  and  were 
sure  they  could  find  me  out.  So  back  they  came 
to  the  shop,  and  this  time  I  noticed  them. 

"I  wonder  who  those  guys  are,  rubbering 
around?"  is  my  remark  to  Murphy,  speaking  in 
the  vernacular,  as  we  are  working  away.  I  was 

91 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

taking  good  care  not  to  stare  hard  at  them  in  my 
turn. 

"They're  not  looking  at  you,  anyhow,"  is  Mur- 
phy's report.  I  steal  another  glance  and  catch 
an  intent,  searching  look  from  one  of  the  visitors. 
I  am  just  finishing  off  a  basket  bottom  and  have  on 
eyeglasses  of  unusual  shape — rather  too  fine  for 
Tom  Brown.  I  fear  that  the  visitor  may  have 
spotted  these.  However,  I  return  his  stare  in- 
solently, with  as  much  of  the  air  of  an  old  timer 
as  I  can  muster  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
At  the  same  instant  I  whisper  some  joke  over 
to  Murphy  that  makes  him  smile;  and  the  guy 
moves  on,  staring  at  others  of  my  shopmates  in 
their  turn. 

"I  guess  he  was  after  me,  all  right,"  I  remark 
to  my  partner,  "and  I'm  afraid  these  infernal 
specs  may  have  given  me  away." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  two  visitors  returned 
from  the  basket-shop  again  disappointed.  One 
of  them  thought  he  had  seen  Tom  Brown,  but 
wasn't  quite  sure.  My  identity  seems  to  be  suffi- 
ciently merged — so  far  as  outsiders  are  con- 
cerned. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  afternoon  my  talk 
with  my  partner  becomes  more  serious.  In  spite 
of  the  rules,  newspapers  seem  to  circulate  here 
and  are  precious  in  proportion  to  their  rarity. 
Some  one  hands  a  paper  to  Murphy,  who  passes  it 

92 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

over  to  me;  and  I,  after  glancing  over  it,  hand  it 
back  to  him  to  be  returned.  The  editor  of  this 
particular  sheet,  in  commenting  upon  my  adven- 
ture, expressed  doubt  as  to  the  possibility  of  "the 
amateur  convict"  being  able  to  get  hold  of  the 
real  life  of  the  prison.  This  view  makes  me 
smile,  under  the  circumstances,  and  I  ask  Murphy 
what  he  thinks  about  it.  His  reply  is  that  there 
is  no  doubt  of  my  being  able  to  get  all  I  want,  and 
getting  it  straight. 

"Well,  I  want  to  know  all  there  is,"  I  lightly 
rejoin,  "and  I'm  thinking  of  breaking  the  rules 
in  some  way  before  I  get  out  of  here,  so  as  to  be 
sent  down  to  the  punishment  cells." 

A  look  of  genuine  concern  comes  over  my  part- 
ner's face,  and  his  voice  sinks  to  an  awestruck 
whisper.  "Do  you  mean  the  jail?"  he  asks. 

"Yes,"  I  answer;  "I  want  to  learn  everything 
possible  about  this  place,  so  I  think  I  may  as  well 
spend  at  least  one  night  in  jail." 

"Well,  you'd  better  be  careful."  My  partner 
speaks  slowly  and  impressively.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  of  his  sincerity;  a  glance  at  his  earnest, 
troubled  face  settles  that.  "I  went  down  to  that 
place  once,"  he  continues;  "and  I  want  to  tell 
you — after  eight  hours  of  it  I  just  caved  right 
in !  I  told  them  that  they  could  do  anything  they 
liked  with  me." 

"Was  it  so  very  bad?"  I  ask. 

"Well,  my  advice  to  you  is  to  give  it  a  wide 

93 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

berth,"  is  his  evasive  answer.  Then  there  is  si- 
lence between  us  for  a  moment,  and  when  he  be- 
gins again  it  is  evident  that  his  thoughts  have 
turned  into  a  still  more  serious  channel.  "Yes, 
you  can  learn  a  great  deal,  but  let  me  tell  you  this, 
Brown:  no  one  can  realize  what  this  place  really 
is  like,  until — until — well,  until  there  is  someone 
he  cares  about  who  is  sick  and  he  can't  get  away." 
There  is  a  tremor  in  his  voice.  Poor  fellow !  The 
Chaplain  told  me  last  night  that  Murphy  had  re- 
cently lost  his  mother  and  felt  her  death  very 
deeply. 

This  talk  occurs  at  the  end  of  the  day's  work 
when  we  are  waiting  for  the  Captain's  signal  of 
return,  and  Murphy  is  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
table  talking  quietly,  turning  his  head  away  from 
the  Captain  and  toward  me  as  I  stand  on  my 
regular  side  of  the  table. 

I  place  a  hand  on  my  partner's  broad  shoulder. 
"Yes,"  I  say,  "it  must  indeed  be  terrible  in  such 
a  case." 

"Oh,  nobody  can  know  how  bad  it  is,"  he  goes 
on,  my  evident  sympathy  opening  up  the  depths. 
"My  mother  was  sick  in  the  hospital,  very  sick, 
and  I  knew  that  she  was  going  to  die ;  and  I — and 
I  couldn't  get  to  her.  Oh  God!  if  they  could 
only  have  let  me  go!  I'd  have  come  back!  I'd 
have  come  back.  Honest  I  would.  And  now— 
and  now " 

"Yes,"  I  say,  "I  understand.    And  I  know  my- 

94 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

self  what  it  means.     It's  something  we  never  get 
over — in  prison  or  out." 

For  a  moment  I  fear  that  he  is  going  to  break 
down;  but  he  is  strong  and  schooled  in  self-re- 
pression, and  quickly  regains  control  of  himself. 
To  give  him  time  I  tell  him  something  of  my  own 
experience;  and  he  grasps  my  hand  fervently. 
Whatever  may  come  out  of  my  prison  experiment, 
I  have  made  at  least  one  warm  friend  in  Jack 
Murphy.  The  barriers  are  down  between  us 
two  at  least.  Death,  for  all  its  cruelty,  is  after  all 
the  one  great  unifying  force;  it  forges  the  one 
great  bond  of  human  brotherhood. 

As  I  have  said,  this  last  talk  takes  place  toward 
the  end  of  the  afternoon.  Before  it  occurred  Jack 
had  said,  "Now  it's  my  turn  to  sweep  up  to-night." 
And  he  proceeded  to  do  it,  while  I  took  a  bit  of  ex- 
ercise, walking  up  and  down  the  short  space  per- 
mitted by  the  rules — about  ten  steps  each  way 
across  and  back. 

The  order  comes  to  fall  in.  "Well,  good  night, 
Brown!"  "Good  night,  Jack!"  and  off  we  go; 
first  back  to  the  bucket  stands,  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  did  their  housecleaning  this  afternoon 
instead  of  this  morning.  Then  we  march  up 
through  the  yard  to  the  main  building,  where, 
with  the  others,  I  snatch  my  slice  of  bread,  mount 
the  iron  stairs,  traverse  the  gallery,  and  lock 
myself  in  my  cell  for  the  night. 

95 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

Captain  Lamb  comes  to  bid  me  good-bye.  He 
is  off  on  his  vacation  to-morrow  and  his  place  is 
to  be  filled  temporarily  by  one  of  the  night  officers. 
I  am  sorry  to  have  him  go  as  I  have  taken  a  liking 
to  him  and  wanted  to  discuss  with  him  further 
his  views  on  the  Prison  Problem.  However,  I 
shall  be  interested  to  find  out  how  we  get  along 
with  his  successor. 

The  armchair,  which  George  has  secured  for 
me  in  place  of  the  stool,  is  unfortunately  much 
too  large  for  the  cell.  When  my  shelf  table  is 
hooked  up  there  is  not  room  enough  for  the  chair 
to  be  placed  anywhere  conveniently.  When  I 
sit  back  in  it  my  head  bumps  against  the  locker; 
and  how  I'm  going  to  manage  when  the  bed  is 
let  down  I  don't  know.  The  chair  is  not  my  only 
acquisition ;  when  I  came  in  to-night  I  found  three 
tempting  apples  on  the  shelf  above  my  door. 
I  suspect  my  friend  in  the  blue  shirt,  who  asked 
me  this  noon  if  I  didn't  want  an  apple,  as  his  Cap- 
tain had  given  him  some.  I  shall  save  them  for 
to-morrow,  although  I  find  my  bread  and  water 
rather  tasteless  and  unsatisfactory  to-night. 

The  evening  wears  along.  I  do  not  know  now 
just  what  time  it  is,  but  somewhere  between  seven 
and  eight.  We  have  had  the  twenty  minutes  of 
music,  beginning  again  with  the  sweet  strains  of 
the  Mendelssohn  Spring  Song,  into  which  the 
other  instruments  rudely  break.  My  unknown 

96 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

musician  plays  other  good  selections,  all  with 
equal  skill  and  feeling,  so  far  as  I  can  tell  through 
the  din.  At  the  present  moment  everything  is 
quiet  along  the  corridors,  except  the  inexplicable 
clicking  or  tapping  I  heard  last  evening  and  won- 
dered whether  it  was  telegraphic  in  character. 
One  of  the  night  officers,  who  has  just  paid  me  a 
friendly  call  and  chatted  at  some  length,  tells 
me  that  it  is  caused  by  the  endeavors  of  the  men 
in  the  cells  to  strike  sparks  with  flint  and  steel — 
owing  to  their  monthly  supply  of  matches  having 
given  out.  As  the  monthly  supply  of  each  man  is 
only  one  box,  I  am  not  surprised  at  the  number  of 
clicks  that  I  hear.  A  cigarette  smoker  might 
easily  use  up  one  box  in  a  day — let  alone  a  month.1 

1  On  this  point  Jack  Murphy  writes :  "We  are  allowed 
one  box  of  matches  a  month.  The  men  split  each  match 
into  two  parts,  so  as  to  make  this  one  box  last  as  long  as 
possible.  Each  box  contains  62  matches.  After  they  are 
split  up  into  two  the  prisoner  has  124  matches.  These 
will  last  him  about  10  days;  then  he  must  use  his  flint 
and  steel.  This  is  the  most  intelligent  thing  the  convicts 
are  taught,  for  it  teaches  them  the  art  of  economy, 
which,  if  lived  up  to,  will  help  them  to  overcome  their 
extravagance  when  freed."  I  believe  our  friend  B.  inti- 
mated that  Jack  is  something  of  a  joker. 

Since  my  week  in  prison  the  inmates  are  allowed  to  buy 
a  dozen  boxes  of  matches  a  month.  Why  they  should  not 
always  have  been  allowed  to  do  so  is  beyond  my  compre- 
hension. 

97 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

It  is  very  curious  the  difference  between  last 
evening  and  this  in  my  feelings.  Then  I  was  so 
excited  that  each  noise  got  on  my  nerves.  To- 
night I  am  quiet;  and  I  think  sleep  will  come 
more  easily  and  stay  longer.  Perhaps  I  can  even 
slumber  through  the  visits  of  the  watchman  with 
his  electric  bull's-eye. 

At  this  point  I  was  interrupted  by  the  Warden 
and  Grant,  who  have  just  paid  me  a  long  call. 
As  I  feel  even  more  possessed  with  the  desire  to 
talk  than  I  did  last  night,  I  could  hardly  bear  to 
let  them  go.  They  came  up  to  the  entrance  of 
my  cell  very  quietly  so  as  not  to  attract  attention, 
and  I  was  taken  almost  by  surprise  when  I  heard 
their  voices.  I  had  rather  expected  a  visit  from 
the  Warden  this  evening,  but  knew  nothing  for 
certain. 

"Well,  how  are  you  coming  on?"  is  the  first 
question. 

"Fine!" 

"How  are  you  feeling?" 

"First  rate!" 

"How  do  you  like  your  job?" 

"Couldn't  ask  anything  better." 

"How  do  the  men  treat  you?" 

"As  fine  a  lot  of  fellows  as  I  was  ever  thrown 
with." 

The  Warden  and  Grant  stifle  their  laughter. 

"Well,"  I  remark,  "I  suppose  it  does  sound 
98 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

rather  funny,  but  I  mean  it.  I  wouldn't  ask  for 
any  better  treatment  than  I'm  getting.  The  men 
are  certainly  acting  like  gentlemen.  They  are  doing 
just  what  I  asked  of  them — treating  me  exactly 
like  one  of  themselves;  and  as  for  my  partner, 
Murphy,  we're  the  very  best  of  friends.  He's  a 
fine  fellow.  But  look  here,"  I  continue,  "I'm 
making  no  kick,  and  I'm  perfectly  satisfied  where 
I  am ;  but  what  was  the  reason  for  the  change  of 
plan?  Why  didn't  the  P.  K.  put  me  where  we 
had  decided?  When  shall  I  be  placed  with  that 
tough  bunch?" 

This  time  my  two  visitors  cannot  control  their 
amusement;  they  laugh  loudly. 

"Why,"  says  the  Warden,  as  soon  as  he  can 
;atch  his  breath,  "you  are  with  the  tough  bunch!" 

"Oh,  come  off!  you  know  what  I  mean,  the 
Idle  Company  that  I  was  to  be  placed  with  for 
the  first  day  or  two." 

"You're  with  the  Idle  Company,"  explains  the 
Warden;  "only  they're  not  idle  any  longer,  they've 
been  put  to  work.  It  is  the  same  one  where  we 
planned  for  you  to  begin." 

I  was  never  more  surprised;  but  in  order  to 
turn  the  joke  on  them  I  assume  the  toughest  man- 
ner at  my  disposal  and  say,  "Gee !  Did  you  think 
I  wasn't  wise?  I  was  only  kiddin'  youse  guys! 
But  take  this  from  me — straight.  If  we're  the 
toughest  bunch  in  this  stir  the  other  guys  must  be 
skypilots,  all  right!" 

99 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

"Well,  he  seems  to  be  getting  some  of  the 
lingo  down  pretty  fine,"  is  Grant's  quiet  comment; 
and  then  we  turn  seriously  to  the  events  of  the 
day,  to  my  health  and  other  matters.  The  War- 
den describes  his  visit  to  the  shop  with  the  news- 
paper men,  and  the  failure  of  all  concerned,  in- 
cluding himself,  to  recognize  me. 

I  tell  him  that  it  is  quite  evident  that  the  prison 
atmosphere  has  been  successful  in  disguising  my 
individuality,  at  least  so  far  as  appearance  is 
concerned.  Then,  after  some  more  serious  talk, 
we  reach  an  agreement  of  opinion  that  I  am  prob- 
ably getting  as  much  experience  as  possible  where 
I  am  now  working;  and  so  it  would  be  better  to 
continue  in  the  basket-shop  for  the  present.  The 
Warden  makes  me  a  promise  to  come  again  to- 
morrow evening,  and  they  take  their  departure. 
I  wish  they'd  come  back,  I  haven't  talked  half 
enough. 

The  Warden  told  me  that  one  of  the  convicts 
who  works  in  his  household  quarters  locks  in  (to 
use  the  prison  expression  denoting  temporary 
residence)  next  to  me — Number  14  on  this  tier; 
and  that  he  had  felt  rather  hurt  that  I  did  not 
answer  his  taps.  It  seems  that  after  finishing  his 
evening's  work  he  gets  back  to  his  cell  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  that  he  tapped  me  a  greeting  last 
night.  That  was  just  about  the  time  I  fell  asleep. 
I  remember  getting  the  impression  in  a  vague  way 

100 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

of  some  noises  on  the  gallery  near  by,  just  as  I 
was  dropping  off;  that  must  have  been  the  night 
officer  letting  him  into  his  cell.  To-night  I  shall 
stay  awake  and  answer  his  message. 

So  the  company  I  am  in  is  the  one  I  have  been 
dreading,  is  it?  "The  toughest  bunch  of  fellows 
in  the  prison" — Murphy  and  Stuhlmiller  and 
"Blackie,"  the  good-natured  fellow  who  gave 
away  his  tobacco  and  brings  us  the  material  for 
our  baskets;  and  the  other  pleasant  men  whose  ac- 
quaintance I  have  been  making  these  last  two 
days  in  the  shop.  It  is  incredible,  inconceivable. 
What  can  be  the  explanation  of  it  all? 

Is  it  possible  that  I  am  being  made  the  victim 
of  a  clever  system  of  deception?  This  is  natur- 
ally my  first  thought.  I  can  well  imagine  that 
Jack  Murphy  enjoys  the  novel  sensation  of  hav- 
ing as  his  partner  a  man  who  is  for  the  moment 
an  object  of  peculiar  interest  to  this  community, 
that  is  simply  human  nature.  No  doubt  Harley 
Stuhlmiller  enjoys  giving  directions  to  the  mem- 
ber of  a  state  commission,  that  again  is  human 
nature.  But  that  these  men  could  assume  vir- 
tues which  they  have  not,  and  carry  out  a  whole- 
sale system  of  deceit — that  is  not  possible.  I 
have  been  on  my  guard  every  moment  I  have 
been  here,  and  I  have  observed  some  few  at- 
tempts to  get  into  my  good  graces,  with  a  possible 

101 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

expectation  of  future  benefits;  but  on  the  other 
hand  there  has  been  a  remarkable  and  most  suc- 
cessful effort  to  carry  out  my  request — to  treat 
me  as  plain  Tom  Brown. 

No,  that  explanation  doesn't  explain;  the  truth 
must  lie  in  another  direction.  And  here  is  my 
idea.  I  am  not  seeing  the  worse  side  of  these 
men  because  there  is  no  occasion  for  them  to 
show  me  their  worse  side;  but  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  overlooking  or  denying  that  side.  They 
wouldn't  be  in  prison  if  they  did  not  have  it.  But, 
although  they  may  form  the  toughest  bunch  in 
prison,  they  evidently  have  their  better  side  also, 
and  is  that  not  just  as  real  as  the  worse  side? 
And  is  it  not  the  better  side  that  is  the  more  im- 
portant for  us  to  consider?  Important — whether 
we  approach  the  matter  from  the  side  of  philan- 
thropy or  from  that  of  political  economy.  In 
either  case  we  must  consider  it  important  that 
men  should  not  leave  prison  in  such  condition, 
mental,  moral  or  physical,  that  they  will  almost 
certainly  commit  more  crimes  and  be  returned  to 
prison. 

To  which  side,  the  better  or  the  worse,  does 
the  Prison  System  now  appeal?  Which  does  it 
encourage  and  develop?  These  are  pretty  vital 
questions. 

At  any  rate  it  seems  to  me  to  have  been  great 
good  luck  that  I  was  placed  in  the  basket-shop 
where  I  should  associate  with  just  these  men;  for 

102 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

if  these  fellows  are  really  among  the  more  diffi- 
cult cases  in  the  prison,  then  I  think 


Wednesday  morning,  October  I. 


At  that  interesting  moment,  while  still  writing 
my  journal,  the  lights  suddenly  went  out  on  me; 
so  I  am  finishing  this  next  morning.  The  Warden 
and  Grant  arrived  soon  after  eight  and  must 
have  stayed  longer  than  I  thought;  and  some- 
how I  seem  to  have  missed  the  warning  bell. 
I  had  not  begun  to  prepare  for  bed,  when  sud- 
denly I  was  left  in  darkness.  I  had  to  get  my 
writing  materials  into  the  locker  and  make  my 
evening  toilet  the  best  way  I  could,  with  the  help 
of  the  dim  light  from  the  corridor  coming 
through  the  grated  door.  There  was  one  good 
thing  about  it,  however;  I  was  too  busy  for  a 
while  to  notice  the  blackness  of  the  bars  which 
had  given  me  such  a  shock  the  night  before.  It 
did  not  take  so  very  long  to  make  my  preparations, 
for  the  state  of  New  York  allows  its  boarders 
neither  night  shirts  nor  pajamas.  We  have  to 
sleep  in  the  underclothes  in  which  we  have  worked 
all  day.  An  arrangement  which  strikes  one  as 
being  almost  more  medieval  than  the  sewage  dis- 
posal system. 

103 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

On  Monday  night,  according  to  Jack  Murphy, 
the  men  in  my  corridor  all  waited  to  hear  if  I 
had  the  usual  difficulties  with  my  bed;  and  as 
some  other  fellow's  bed  went  down  with  him 
during  the  evening  they  thought  they  had  the 
laugh  on  me.  This  Tuesday  night  they  certainly 
had.  That  infernal  armchair  could  not  be  placed 
where  it  did  not  catch  the  edge  of  the  bed  when 
I  let  it  down,  so  as  to  leave  one  leg  dangling 
loose,  as  only  one  could  touch  the  floor  at  a  time. 
In  the  course  of  my  struggles  with  the  bed,  the 
whole  miserable  contrivance  came  off  the  hooks 
and  fell  down  with  a  metallic  rattle  and  bang 
that  could  be  heard  all  over  the  corridor.  Then 
came  snickers  from  various  distances,  and  my 
frantic  effort  to  straighten  things  out  only  made 
more  noise  than  ever.  Bursts  of  smothered 
laughter  came  through  the  bars;  and  I  laughed, 
myself,  until  I  was  almost  in  hysterics.  Finally 
I  got  the  bed  hitched  on  to  the  back  hooks,  folded 
it  up  against  the  wall  and  started  all  over  again. 
I  began  by  putting  the  chair  on  its  back  as  far 
away  from  the  bed  as  possible,  which  wasn't 
very  far,  and  this  time  I  just  managed  to  get  the 
legs  of  the  bed  to  the  floor.  After  that  it  was 
short  work  to  get  ready  for  the  night. 

I  have  not  yet  described  my  bed  covering.  I 
have  one  double  and  one  single  blanket  and  a 
thin  blanket  sheet — no  cotton  or  linen  of  any 
sort.  I  do  not  need,  in  this  weather,  more  than 

104 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

one  of  the  three  blankets ;  but  if  I  were  to  be  here 
long  I  know  I  should  like  some  cotton  bedclothes 
and  pillow  cases.  These  can  be  secured,  appar- 
ently, only  by  buying  them,  and  many  prisoners 
have  not  the  money  to  buy  them.  It  seems  as  if 
the  State  should  furnish  them  to  all  prisoners; 
certainly  the  present  arrangement  leaves  much  to 
be  desired  from  a  sanitary  point  of  view. 

Having  thus  at  last  got  into  bed,  I  found  my- 
self not  so  sleepy  as  when  I  started;  moreover, 
now  that  I  was  in  bed,  that  black  grating  began 
again  to  have  its  nervous  effect  upon  me.  If  I 
thought  it  would  be  any  better  I  should  turn,  fac- 
ing the  other  way;  but  that  would  bring  my  head 
so  close  to  the  grating  that  anyone  from  outside 
could  poke  me  with  his  fingers.  Moreover,  it 
wouldn't  help  matters,  for  as  long  as  I  know  that 
grating  is  there  I  might  as  well  look  at  it;  I  should 
certainly  feel  it  even  worse  if  I  turned  my  back. 

I  heard  the  nine-fifty  train  drawing  into  the 
station.  I  wondered  who,  if  any,  of  my  friends 
were  boarding  the  train  for  New  York.  How 
often  have  I  done  so  without  ever  thinking  of 
the  poor  fellows  over  here,  lying  restless  in  their 
cells  and  marking  the  time  by  the  arrival  and 
departure  of  trains.  After  a  suitable  interval  I 
heard  the  train  draw  away.  Then  I  knew  that  in 
a  few  moments  my  neighbor  from  the  Warden's 
rooms  would  be  down. 

105 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

Soon  I  heard  the  opening  and  closing  of  a  dis- 
tant door,  then  stealthy  footfalls  along  the  cor- 
ridor, the  faint  sound  of  a  lock,  and  I  saw  the 
long  iron  bar  slowly  and  noiselessly  raise  itself 
from  the  top  of  the  cell  opening.  Then  more 
stealthy  footfalls,  the  sound  of  the  great  key  turn- 
ing in  a  lock  close  at  hand,  the  click  of  a  lever, 
and  a  few  faint  sounds  through  the  wall  at  my 
right.  Then  the  lever  clicked  again  as  the  door 
closed,  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  soft  footfalls 
died  away  along  the  gallery,  the  long  bar  dropped 
down,  and  all  was  so  quiet  for  a  moment  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  very  building  were  holding  its 
breath. 

Then  through  the  wall  I  heard  the  very  faint- 
est possible  sound:  tap-ta-tap-tap ;  tap-ta-tap-tap. 
Then  silence.  It  was  so  faint  that  if  I  had  not 
been  waiting  for  some  sound  I  might  not  have 
heard  it  at  all.  Tap-ta-tap-tap.  It  said  quite 
plainly,  "How  do  you  do?"  I  stretched  out  my 
left  hand  to  the  wall  on  my  right  and  with  my 
ring  gave  an  answering  signal :  Tap-tap ;  tap-tap ; 
tap-tap;  which  was  the  nearest  I  could  come  to, 
"All  right;  all  right."  Then  I  waited  to  see  if 
I  was  answered;  and  sure  enough  in  a  few  seconds 
the  answer  came. 

After  some  moments,  during  which  I  presume 
my  unseen  friend  was  preparing  for  bed,  I  heard 
again  a  different  sound;  rap-rap,  rap-rap,  rap-rap. 
It  said  as  plain  as  possible,  "Good-night,  good- 

106 


TUESDAY  AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

night."  So  I  returned  it  in  the  same  way.  Then 
turning  over  in  my  narrow  bed  I  fell  asleep,  and 
although  my  sleep  was  neither  deep  nor  continu- 
ous it  was  much  better  than  the  night  before. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WEDNESDAY   MORNING  AND  AFTERNOON 

In  my  cell,  Wednesday  evening,  October  2. 


LOOKING  out  of  the  upper  windows  in  the 
outer  wall,   from  the  door  of  my  cell,  I 
can  see  that  the  morning  is  cloudy  and 
threatening.    It  is  also  warmer;  up  to  now  it  has 
been  clear  and  cool. 

I  feel  in  good  condition  after  a  very  fair  night, 
and  rise  soon  after  hearing  the  six  o'clock  west- 
bound train  and  the  factory  whistles.  This  gives 
me  ample  time  to  wash,  dress,  and  get  completely 
ready  for  the  day. 

The  new  acting  Captain  starts  in  this  morning 
— Captain  Kane.  He  is  a  handsome,  neat  and 
soldierly  appearing  officer,  with  cold  blue  eyes 
and  a  forceful  quiet  manner.  Promptly  on  time 
he  unlocks  the  levers,  and  George,  the  trusty, 
follows  close  after,  pushing  them  down.  Around 
the  corner  there  is  a  slight  delay,  as  the  long  bar 

108 


WEDNESDAY  MORNING— AFTERNOON 

on  that  tier  seems  to  be  somewhat  out  of  order 
and  will  not  rise  far  enough  to  allow  the  doors 
of  the  cells  to  swing  open.  I'm  glad  I'm  not  in 
one  of  those  cells  or  I  should  be  afraid  of  being 
shut  in  for  the  day.  The  Captain  soon  gets  the 
bar  raised,  however,  and  the  usual  routine  hap- 
pens; walking  along  the  gallery  with  our  heavy 
buckets,  descending  the  iron  stairs,  waiting  in 
the  passage  at  the  door  of  the  north  wing,  and 
marching  down  the  yard  to  the  sewage  disposal 
building.  Then  the  rapid  cleaning  of  the  buckets, 
leaving  them  to  be  aired  and  disinfected  at  the 
stands;  and  the  march  back  to  our  cells.  It  is, 
as  I  supposed,  a  gray,  cloudy  day,  with  rain  likely 
to  come.  If  it  does,  there  is  no  change  of  cloth- 
ing whatever  in  my  cell,  and  no  way  of  getting 
one  that  I  know  of;  so  I  hope  it  will  not  rain. 
But  what  do  these  poor  fellows  do  after  march- 
ing through  the  yard  in  a  real  drenching  shower? 
Work  until  they're  dry,  I  suppose,  if  they  get 
wet  on  the  way  to  the  shop ;  or  go  to  bed  in  their 
cells  if  they  get  wet  on  the  way  back.  This  holds 
out  to  me  a  cheerful  prospect  of  wet  clothes  all 
day  and  fourteen  hours  in  bed  in  case  it  rains 
hard;  for  the  distance  from  the  cell  block  to  the 
basket-shop  would  be  a  long  walk  in  the  rain. 

What  an  admirable  system  1  Excellently  calcu- 
lated, I  should  imagine,  to  produce  the  largest 
possible  crop  of  pneumonia  in  the  shortest  possi- 
ble space  of  time. 

109 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

Upon  my  return  to  the  cell  I  do  my  morning 
sweeping.  I  do  not  know  where  all  the  dust  comes 
from,  as  no  one  else  uses  the  cell,  and  I  can't  see 
where  I  collect  any ;  but  dusty  it  is  every  morning. 

Then  I  have  a  call  from  Dickinson,  the  Chap- 
lain's assistant.  The  poor  fellow  has  a  letter 
from  the  man  who  had  promised  him  work,  say- 
ing that  the  factory  is  running  slack  and  there 
is  no  knowing  how  soon  his  job  will  be  ready  for 
him.  He  had  counted  on  Saturday  being  his  day 
of  release,  his  wife  was  coming  to  meet  him,  and 
all  his  plans  were  made  for  a  joyful  family  re- 
union. Now  it  must  all  go  by  the  board.  It  is  a 
heart-breaking  disappointment,  but  he  bears  up 
bravely. 

As  it  happens  I  may  be  able  to  help  him.  At 
any  rate  I  promise  to  write  a  letter  to  his  pro- 
posed employer.  The  poor  fellow  grasps  at  this 
slight  comfort  and  expresses  his  gratitude  most 
fervently.  Then  I  turn  my  attention  to  breakfast. 

Wednesday's  breakfast  consists  of  hash,  with 
the  usual  accompaniments  of  boot-leg  and  punk. 
I  was  told  in  the  shop  yesterday  what  to  expect. 
The  smell  of  the  mess-room  is  beginning  to  be 
unpleasant,  perhaps  owing  to  the  change  in  tem- 
perature. If  so,  what  it  must  be  on  a  moist  warm 
day  in  summer,  or  on  a  wet  day  in  winter  when 
the  steam  is  turned  on,  I  hate  to  think. 

The  hash  is  not  so  good  as  yesterday's  por- 
no 


WEDNESDAY  MORNING— AFTERNOON 

ridge.  Moreover  it  is  rendered  distinctly  less 
appetizing  by  the  amount  of  bone  and  gristle 
which  I  find  chopped  up  in  it.  I  hope  I  am  not 
unduly  fastidious  in  such  matters,  and  an  occa- 
sional inedible  morsel  I  should  not  criticize;  but 
an  average  of  two  or  three  pieces  of  bone  and 
gristle  to  a  mouthful  seems  to  me  excessive. 

Back  in  my  cell  I  write  my  promised  letter  on 
behalf  of  Dickinson;  but  the  minutes  before  shop 
time  pass  so  quickly  that  when  the  lever  is  pressed 
down  I  am  not  ready,  and  so  have  to  make  a 
grab  for  my  coat  and  cap  and  fall  in  toward  the 
end  of  the  line  on  the  gallery.  During  the  halt 
at  the  door,  however,  I  regain  my  place — third 
in  line  on  the  left.  The  rain  has  come,  but,  fortu- 
nately, it  is  little  more  than  a  mist.  It  gives  me 
a  chance,  however,  to  venture  a  mild  pleasantry. 
When  the  Captain  is  out  of  hearing  I  whisper, 
with  as  English  an  accent  as  possible,  "Oh,  dear 
me!  Where  did  I  leave  my  umber-rella ?"  a  re- 
mark which  causes  unseemly  snickers  from  those 
within  hearing.  The  joke  is  quite  in  character, 
as  those  I  hear  turn  largely  on  the  various  hard- 
ships and  privations  of  prison  life;  although  the 
one  huge,  massive,  gigantic  joke,  which  is  always 
fresh  and  pointed,  is  the  current  rate  of  payment 
for  a  prisoner's  work — one  cent  and  a  half  a  day. 
Before  this  monumental  and  gorgeous  piece  of 
humor  all  other  jokes  seem  flat  and  pointless. 

On  the  march  down  the  yard  to  the  shop  we 
in 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

pass  the  Warden.  He  lets  us  go  by  without  any 
sign  of  recognition,  which  gives  me  another 
chance  to  get  a  laugh  from  my  comrades.  I 
whisper,  "So  that  is  the  way  my  old  friends  treat 
me!"  Apparently  the  prisoners  can  appreciate  a 
joke  better  than  an  official;  I  am  still  a  bit  re- 
sentful at  the  way  that  excessively  bored  Ber- 
tillon  clerk  received  my  attempt  at  humor. 

Arrived  at  the  shop  I  go  directly  to  my  bench, 
and  turning  around  am  greeted  by  the  cheery  face 
of  my  partner.  He  comes  up  behind  me,  for  he 
marches  somewhere  in  the  rear.  "Well,  Brown, 
how  did  you  get  by  last  night?" 

"Better,  thank  you,  Jack!" 

"Well,  of  course  you  will  find  it  hard  for  the 
first  week  or  two,  but  after  that  you  will  be  O.  K." 
By  which  it  will  be  seen  that  my  partner  likes  a 
joke  as  well  as  the  next  man.  Then  as  we  hang 
up  our  caps  and  coats  and  get  ready  for  work 
he  continues,  "A  new  man  always  does  find  it 
hard  to  sleep  when  he  is  thinking  of  a  wife  or 
mother  or  someone  else  at  home;  but  as  soon  as 
the  mist  clears  away  he  begins  to  see  and  think 
more  clearly." 

I  am  about  to  answer  when  a  warning  whisper, 
"Look  out !  Here  comes  the  screw !"  tells  me  that 
our  new  Captain  is  approaching. 

"How  many  bottoms  do  you  two  men  make 
a  day?"  asks  that  officer. 

112 


WEDNESDAY  MORNING— AFTERNOON 

I  look  at  Murphy  and  he  promptly  answers, 
"Five." 

"Then  continue  making  five  for  a  day's  work, 
just  as  you  were  doing  under  your  regular  offi- 
cer," says  the  Captain;  and  moves  on  to  the  next 
pair  of  men.  Our  new  officer  evidently  does  not 
propose  to  have  the  work  slack  off  during  his 
management  of  the  shop. 

My  other  shopmates  have  greeted  me  warmly, 
and  presently  I  have  pleasant  conversations  with 
some  of  them.  To-day  for  the  first  time  the  ice 
is  thoroughly  broken,  and  I  am  quite  made  one 
of  them.  It  happens  in  this  way. 

As  we  are  working  away,  Jack  and  I,  trying 
to  accomplish  our  morning's  task  with  very  stiff 
material  to  work  with,  the  P.  K.  shows  up.  He 
has  come,  I  suppose,  to  see  how  the  new  Captain 
is  getting  on  with  the  toughest  bunch  of  fellows 
in  the  prison.  After  he  has  conversed  awhile 
with  the  Captain  he  walks  slowly  over  to  where 
we  are  working  and  remarks,  apparently  address- 
ing the  world  in  general,  "Don't  you  feel  the 
draught  from  that  door?" 

As  he  has  not  spoken  to  anyone  in  particular, 
I  look  at  Jack  and  wait  for  him  or  somebody 
else  to  answer;  but  Jack  is  bending  over  his  work 
and  no  one  seems  inclined  to  say  anything. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  I  begin  politely;  "as  far  as 
I  am  concerned  I  don't  mind  it,  for  I  like  fresh 
air.  It  doesn't  trouble  me  any." 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

"Well  now,"  says  the  portly  and  dignified  dis- 
penser of  law  and  order,  "I  don't  want  you  men 
to  catch  cold.  I  think  you'd  better  have  that  door 
shut  and  perhaps  the  windows  farther  open.  I'll 
just  speak  to  the  Captain  about  it.  You  mustn't 
work  in  a  draught  if  you  feel  it  too  much." 

As  the  P.  K.  steps  back  to  the  Captain  I  glance 
over  at  Murphy  and  catch  an  answering  gleam  in 
his  eye.  "It's  all  right,  Jack,"  I  remark,  in  a 
cautious  undertone,  "I'm  wise." 

He  grins.  "Well,  did  you  ever  see  anything 
so  raw  as  that?" 

I  chuckle,  and  glance  sarcastically  over  toward 
our  highly  respected  officers.  Jack  continues, 
"Does  he  think  he  can  put  that  over  on  us?" 

"Not  this  time,"  is  my  reply;  and  when  the 
Captain,  upon  the  P.  K.'s  departure,  comes  over 
to  shut  the  door  I  tell  him  that  if  he  doesn't  mind 
we  should  prefer  to  have  it  left  open,  to  which 
suggestion  he  kindly  yields.  It  is  a  large  double 
door  and  gives  light  as  well  as  fresh  air  to  all 
our  part  of  the  shop. 

This  little  episode  has  not  gone  unnoticed  by 
the  rest  of  the  men;  I  almost  instantly  feel  that 
I  have  risen  several  pegs  in  the  esteem  of  my 
comrades.  Several  of  them  who  have  hitherto 
held  aloof  come  over  for  an  introduction  to  Tom 
Brown.  If  I  am  on  the  side  of  the  convicts 
against  the  officers,  in  short  if  I  am  "ag'in  the 
government,"  I  must  be  all  right.  I  am  perfectly 

114 


WEDNESDAY  MORNING— AFTERNOON 

conscious  of  the  barriers  giving  way.  Of  course 
the  game  I  am  playing  has  its  dangers,  but  I 
believe  it  is  the  wise  one.  If  I  am  really  to  gain 
these  men's  confidence,  I  must  be  on  the  convicts' 
side  and  act  the  part  completely.  I  must  look 
at  matters  from  the  convicts'  point  of  view;  and 
scorn  of  all  forms  of  hypocrisy  and  double  dealing 
on  the  part  of  those  in  authority  as  well  as  good 
faith  with  your  pals  seems  to  be  the  platform 
upon  which  all  the  best  men  stand.  And  these 
are  mighty  fine  qualities  outside  prison;  why  then 
are  they  not  equally  fine  inside?  Are  not  truth 
and  courage  and  devotion  to  be  welcomed  wher- 
ever found?  And  are  not  falsehood  and  hy- 
pocrisy always  hateful?  A  certain  man  who  is 
serving  time  here,  although  innocent  of  the  crime 
for  which  he  was  sent,  because  he  could  not  escape 
conviction  without  implicating  two  of  his  friends, 
is  a  type.  "But  then,"  he  once  explained  to  me, 
"you  see,  I  had  done  a  good  many  things  for 
which  I  had  not  served  time.  And  our  code  of 
ethics  is  based  upon  the  rule  that  you  must  never 
squeal  on  a  pal."  It  was  the  same  man  who, 
when  he  once  started  to  complain  of  the  injus- 
tice of  some  term  he  had  served  and  I  had  said, 
"Yes,  but  you  must  consider  the  other  side  of 
it,"  broke  into  a  smile  and  answered: 

"You  are  entirely  right.  I've  calculated  that 
I  still  owe  the  state  of  New  York  two  or  three 
hundred  years." 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 
But  all  that  is  another  story. 

Before  the  morning  is  over  George,  the  trusty, 
comes  along  saying:  "Shave,  Jack?"  "Yes." 
"Shave,  Brown?"  "No,  thank  you." 

So  my  partner  goes  under  George's  hands  for 
his  semiweekly  barbering,  and  in  due  time  re- 
appears, looking  his  best.  If  anyone  should  ask 
me  how  good  is  Jack's  best,  I  should  have  to 
answer  that  I  have  not  the  least  idea.  By  this 
time  I  am  becoming  so  attached  to  my  open- 
hearted,  whole-souled  partner  that  I  can  only 
look  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  affectionate  and 
indiscriminating  friendship. 

While  Jack  is  getting  shaved  I  work  on  stead- 
ily, chatting  with  Stuhlmiller,  "Blackie,"  whose 
name  I  find  is  Laflam,  and  Jack  Bell,  who  marches 
second  in  line  on  the  right,  and  who  has  a  pleasant 
voice  and  seems  like  an  exceptionally  intelligent 
fellow. 

We  return  to  the  cell  house  at  the  usual  time; 
and  fortunately  the  rain  has  ceased,  so  I  do  not 
have  the  experience  of  a  wet  day — an  experience 
I  am  quite  willing  to  forego. 

At  dinner  we  have  pork  and  beans,  the  beans 
not  at  all  bad.  We  also  have  tea  instead  of 
coffee.  I  can  make  out  but  very  little  difference 
in  these  two  beverages.  I  should  say  they  must 
both  be  prepared  in  some  such  apparatus  as  is 
described  by  the  boy  in  "Mugby  Junction" :  "A 

116 


WEDNESDAY  MORNING— AFTERNOON 

metallic  object  that's  at  times  the  tea-urn  and  at 
times  the  soup-tureen,  according  to  the  nature  of 
the  last  twang  imparted  to  its  contents  which  are 
the  same  groundwork." 

After  dinner  I  have  a  long  talk  with  Roger 
Landry.  He  grows  confidential,  telling  much 
about  himself — completing  the  story,  part  of 
which  he  gave  me  yesterday.  It  interests  me 
greatly.  And  it  is  just  this  vital  human  element 
that  is  making  my  experiment  so  much  more  ab- 
sorbing than  I  had  expected. 

At  the  usual  time  we  march  back  to  the  shop, 
where  I  have  two  new  experiences. 

The  first  is  a  glimpse  of  the  school.  I  am 
working  away  steadily  with  Jack  when  an  officer 
suddenly  appears  at  my  elbow.  "Is  this  Thomas 
Brown?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"The  Professor  wants  to  see  you  at  the  school." 

Meekly  putting  on  my  cap  and  coat,  I  follow 
the  keeper  out  of  the  shop.  At  least  I  prepare 
to  follow — I  wait  for  him  to  lead  the  way,  but 
he  motions  me  to  go  ahead  of  him.  Then  I  real- 
ize that  an  officer  escorting  a  convict  always  walks 
just  behind,  where  he  can  keep  a  watchful  eye  on 
every  move  of  his  charge. 

The  school  is  only  a  few  steps  away,  in  fact 
in  the  second  story  of  the  very  building  of  which 
our  shop  occupies  the  ground  floor.  I  ascend  the 

117 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

stairs,  and  passing  through  a  hall  find  myself  in 
the  principal's  office.  Here  I  am  told  to  wait 
until  the  Professor  is  at  leisure.  I  wait  a  long 
time.  When  he  arrives  he  gives  me  a  single 
sheet  of  paper,  and  tells  me  to  write  a  composi- 
tion on  the  subject  of  My  Education. 

I  sit  down  and  quickly  fill  two  pages  with  a 
succinct  account  of  my  stay  at  different  institu- 
tions of  learning,  ending  with  my  graduation 
from  the  university.  Then  I  simply  add  that, 
while  this  has  been  the  end  of  my  schooling,  I 
hope  my  education  is  still  going  on. 

The  Professor  having  left  the  room  again  while 
I  am  writing,  I  have  another  considerable  wait. 
The  school  appears  to  be  much  larger  and  more 
important  than  when  I  saw  it  last,  some  years 
ago.  I  should  like  to  see  more  of  it.  After  a 
while  the  Professor  returns  and  reads  over  my 
paper.  His  only  comment  is  one  regarding  my 
university  degree.  The  Chaplain  has  already 
told  me  that  there  are  twenty  college  graduates 
confined  in  prison  here,  but  I  am  pleased  to  have 
the  Professor  add  the  information  that  I  am  the 
only  Harvard  graduate  in  the  institution.  I  re- 
press the  inevitable  impulse  to  say,  "I  suppose 
the  others  come  from  Yale,"  and  simply  express 
gratification  at  what  the  Professor  has  told  me. 
I  have  already  decided  to  reserve  all  jokes  for 
my  comrades. 

"That  is  all,  Brown." 
118 


WEDNESDAY  MORNING— AFTERNOON 

"Thank  you,   sir." 

I  cannot  even  be  trusted  to  go  down  one 
flight  of  stairs  and  walk  not  more  than  thirty 
steps  to  the  door  of  the  basket-shop;  so  another 
wait  is  necessary  until  the  keeper  who  brought 
me  up  is  ready  to  take  me  back.  He  in  time 
reappears  and  returns  me,  like  a  large  and  ani- 
mated package,  to  Captain  Kane.  I  appear  to 
have  satisfied  the  authorities  with  my  mental 
equipment. 

My  second  new  experience  to-day  is  the  bath. 
The  order  to  fall  in  comes  soon  after  my  return 
from  the  school.  We  are  lined  up  and  counted — 
35  of  us — each  man  with  his  towel,  soap  and 
bundle  of  clean  clothes.  My  fresh  apparel  ap- 
peared yesterday  in  the  shop  and  George  kindly 
took  care  of  it  for  me  until  to-day.  We  march 
in  due  order  to  a  large  bathhouse  where  are  rows 
of  shower  baths  with  small  anterooms  for  dress- 
ing, arranged  about  three  sides  of  a  large,  oblong 
room  with  a  raised  promenade  for  the  officers 
down  the  middle.  I  am  for  plunging  at  once 
into  my  section,  heedless  of  the  careful  instruc- 
tions Jack  has  given  me,  but  one  of  my  com- 
panions stops  me,  and  I  wait  like  the  others  with 
my  back  to  the  door  until  we  have  all  been  counted 
and  placed.  Then  the  word  is  given,  and  I  enter. 
Here  is  a  very  small  space  where  I  undress,  hand- 
ing the  shirt,  socks,  and  underclothes  I  take  off 

119 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

to  an  attendant  who  sticks  his  hand  under  the 
door  to  get  them.  Then  I  enjoy  a  good  warm 
shower  for  a  few  moments,  but  cut  it  short,  hav- 
ing been  warned  that  I  must  not  waste  any  time. 
The  drying  and  dressing  are  rather  harder  than 
the  disrobing  in  such  confined  quarters,  but  are 
successfully  accomplished,  and  I  am  among  the 
first  to  emerge  and  take  up  my  station  outside, 
with  my  back  to  the  door  again.  The  officer,  who 
has  been  walking  up  and  down  his  elevated  perch, 
keeping  close  watch  of  our  heads  while  we  bathed, 
counts  us  all  carefully  when  the  space  in  front 
of  every  man's  door  is  occupied.  We  then  are 
marched  back  to  the  shop,  are  again  counted,  and 
then  disperse  to  our  work. 

But  the  excitements  of  the  day  are  not  yet 
over.  As  Jack  and  I  are  working  hard  to  make 
up  for  lost  time,  I  suddenly  see  over  to  the  left, 
out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  a  familiar  figure. 
It  is  my  nephew.  He  is  followed  by  another 
familiar  figure  and  another  and  another.  The 
Warden  is  showing  over  the  prison  a  party  of 
visitors,  among  them  several  of  my  intimate 
friends. 

I  fear  that  the  remark  with  which  I  explode 
will  not  bear  repetition. 

"What's  the  matter?"  says  Jack,  looking  up 
from  his  work. 

"Nothing,"  I  reply,  "it's  only  my  nephew,  con- 
120 


WEDNESDAY  MORNING— AFTERNOON 

found  him,  and  some  other  rubbernecks.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  Jack,  work  away  as  usual  and 
don't  attract  any  attention  if  we  can  help  it." 

My  eyeglasses  are  in  my  pocket;  and  fearing 
that  my  ring  may  catch  the  light  I  hastily  drop 
it  also  into  another  pocket.  Then  I  put  on  my 
cap  and  continue  my  work  as  naturally  as  possi- 
ble, without  looking  up. 

Certainly,  so  far  as  appearances  go,  the  prison 
system  is  a  success  in  my  case.  In  arithmetic,  as 
I  recall  it,  we  used  to  seek  for  the  greatest  com- 
mon denominator  and  the  least  common  multiple; 
but  in  prison  the  apparent  object  is  to  find  the 
least  common  denominator — the  lowest  common 
plane  upon  which  you  can  treat  everyone  alike, 
college  graduate  and  Bowery  tough,  sick  and  well, 
imbecility  and  intelligence,  vice  and  virtue. 

In  appearance,  as  I  started  to  say,  I  am  appar- 
ently all  that  could  be  desired.  Just  as  happened 
yesterday,  the  Warden  leads  this  party  through 
the  shop;  they  are  all  looking  specially  for  me; 
they  have  been  spurred  on  by  the  failure  of  the 
newspaper  men  yesterday  and  are  one  and  all 
determined  to  find  me.  Yet  they  one  and  all 
pass  within  twenty  feet,  look  straight  in  my  direc- 
tion— and  go  on  their  way  without  recognizing 
me.  I  must  have  the  marks  of  "the  Criminal" 
unusually  developed,  or  else  criminals  must  look  a 
good  deal  like  other  folks — barring  the  uniform. 
If  I  had  the  ordinary  theories  about  prisons  and 

121 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

prisoners  it  might  seem  rather  mortifying  that, 
in  spite  of  every  effort,  not  one  of  these  intimate 
friends  can  spot  me  among  the  toughest  bunch 
of  fellows  in  the  prison. 

Certainly  something  must  be  wrong  somewhere. 

This  appears  to  be  an  afternoon  of  excite- 
ments. Down  comes  the  P.  K.  again,  for  what 
purpose  I  do  not  know.  The  afternoon  is  cloudy 
and  it  is  getting  somewhat  dark  and  gloomy  in 
the  shop.  After  the  P.  K.  has  spoken  to  the 
Captain  he  comes  over  and  tells  us  fellows  that 
we  can  quit  work  if  we  want  to,  as  it  is  too  dark 
to  see  welj  He  points  to  the  north  windows, 
where  a  car  of  lumber  on  the  track  outside  inter- 
feres somewhat  with  the  light  in  that  part  of  the 
shop.  After  he  is  gone  we  continue  working,  as 
we  can  see  perfectly  well;  and  Jack  is  still  more 
scornful  than  he  was  this  morning.  He  expresses 
the  opinion  that  this  proceeding  is  even  more 
raw  than  the  former  one.  "I  should  like  to  know 
how  long  it  is  since  they  was  so  careful  of  our 
eyes,  so  awful  anxious  about  our  health!"  is  his 
sarcastic  comment. 

My  answering  comment  is  this,  "I  dare  say, 
Jack,  it's  all  right;  but,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
they  can't  come  it  over  me  that  way." 

"Well,  I  guess  not  I"  is  Jack's  hearty  response. 

After  we  have  washed  up  and  just  before  we 
separate  for  the  night  my  partner  comes  up  to 

122 


WEDNESDAY  MORNING— AFTERNOON 

me  in  his  engaging  way.  "Say,  would  you  mind 
if  I  called  you  by  your  first  name?" 

"Mind!  I  should  like  it;  and  I  wish  you 
would."  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  had  been  intend- 
ing to  ask  him  to  do  so. 

So  now  it  is  "Good  night,  Tom,"  "Good  night, 
Jack!'  when  the  time  comes  to  fall  in. 

As  we  turn  into  the  yard,  I  see  a  group  of 
men  gathered  about  the  entrance  of  the  main 
building.  I  suspect  it  to  be  the  same  party  of 
rubbernecks  the  Warden  conducted  through  the 
shop  this  afternoon — including  my  friends.  They 
are  evidently  waiting  for  us  to  march  by.  As 
we  draw  nearer  I  find  that  my  suspicions  are 
confirmed.  I  conclude  that  they  failed  to  dis- 
cover me  in  the  shop,  and  so  are  taking  this 
means  of  gratifying  their  curiosity.  They  are 
welcome  to  do  so.  I  look  as  unconscious  as 
possible;  go  swinging  by  the  group,  eyes  front; 
pick  up  a  slice  of  bread  and  regain  my  cell  as 
usual. 

It  seems  that  this  time  two  or  three  of  them, 
recognizing  my  walk,  spotted  me  at  last.  I  should 
think  it  was  about  time. 

Soon  after  I  am  in  the  cell  my  friend  Joe,  the 
gallery  boy,  comes  along  with  the  hot  beverage 
called  tea,  which  is  a  little  later  than  usual  to- 
night. He  halts  at  the  door. 

"Tea,  Tommy?" 

123 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

One  of  the  prisoners  has  sent  me  a  letter  in 
which  he  addresses  me  as  "old  pal." 

I  think  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  barriers  are 
down  now. 


CHAPTER   IX 

WEDNESDAY   EVENING 
In  my  cell,  later  Wednesday  evening,  October  2. 


UPON  arriving  back  here  this  afternoon, 
and  before  sitting  down  to  my  usual  sup- 
per of  bread  and  water,  I  shave  leisurely. 
In  spite  of  the  jar  of  hot  water  which  George 
has  kindly  brought  to  the  cell  before  I  am  locked 
in  for  the  night,  my  toilet  arrangements  leave 
much  to  be  desired.  It  is  true  I  have  shaved  at 
times  under  greater  disadvantages.  As,  for  in- 
stance, in  camp,  when  I  have  had  to  use  the  inside 
of  my  watch-cover  for  a  mirror.  Here  in  prison 
I  have  at  least  a  real  mirror,  such  as  it  is. 

My  toilet  completed,  I  make  as  much  of  a 
meal  as  I  can  of  bread  and  water.  Then  I  take 
up  my  journal  to  chronicle  the  events  of  the 
day. 

The  twenty  minutes  of  musical  pandemonium 
come  and  go,  the  violinist  as  usual  being  the  first 

125 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

to  begin.  Perhaps  he  may  be  the  fortunate  pos- 
sessor of  a  watch.  Then,  also  as  usual,  a  silence 
follows,  rendered  all  the  more  profound  by  reason 
of  the  previous  discord.  The  cell-house  has  set- 
tled down  for  the  night.  Only  a  few  muffled 
sounds  make  the  stillness  more  distinctly  felt. 

Then 

Suddenly  the  unearthly  quiet  is  shattered  by  a 
terrifying  uproar. 

It  is  too  far  away  to  hear  at  first  anything 
with  distinctness;  it  is  all  a  confused  and  hideous 
mass  of  shouting — a  shouting  first  of  a  few, 
then  of  more,  then  of  many  voices.  I  have  never 
heard  anything  more  dreadful — in  the  full  mean- 
ing of  the  word — full  of  dread.  My  heart  is 
thumping  like  a  trip  hammer,  and  the  cold  shivers 
run  up  and  down  my  back. 

I  jump  to  the  door  of  the  cell,  pressing  my 
ear  close  against  the  cold  iron  bars.  Then  I  can 
distinguish  a  few  words  sounding  against  the 
background  of  the  confused  outcry.  "Stop  that!" 
"Leave  him  alone!"  "Damn  you,  stop  that!" 
Then  some  dull  thuds;  I  even  fancy  that  I  hear 
something  like  a  groan,  along  with  the  continued 
confused  and  violent  shouting. 

What  can  it  be? 

While  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  I  am  not  in 
the  least  likely  to  be  harmed,  I  am  shivering 
with  something  close  akin  to  a  chill  of  actual 

126 


WEDNESDAY   EVENING 

terror.  If  anyone  near  at  hand  were  to  give 
vent  to  a  sudden  yell,  I  feel  as  if  I  might  easily 
lose  my  self-control  and  shout  and  bang  my  door 
with  the  rest  of  them. 

The  cries  continue,  accompanied  with  other 
noises  that  I  cannot  make  out.  Then  my  atten- 
tion is  attracted  by  whispering  down  at  one  of 
the  lower  windows  in  the  outer  wall  of  the  cor- 
ridor opposite  my  cell.  It  is  so  dark  outside  that 
I  can  see  nothing,  not  even  the  dim  shapes  of  the 
whisperers ;  but  apparently  the*re  are  two  of  them, 
and  they  are  looking  in  and  commenting  on  the 
disturbance.  Their  sinister  whispering  is  very 
unpleasant.  I  wonder  if  they  can  see  what  is 
going  on.  I  feel  inclined  to  call  out  and  ask 
them,  but  I  do  not  know  who  they  are;  and  I  do 
know  that  such  an  act  would  be  entirely  against 
the  rules  and  liable  to  provoke  severe  punish- 
ment, and  I  am  not  yet  ready  to  be  sent  to  the 
jail. 

The  shouts  die  down.  There  are  a  few  more 
vague  and  uncertain  sounds — all  the  more  dread- 
ful for  being  uncertain;  somewhere  an  iron  door 
clangs!  then  stillness  follows,  like  that  of  the 
grave. 

It  is  useless — I  can  make  nothing  of  it  all;  so 
I  sit  down  again  and  try  to  compose  my  mind  to 
write,  but  the  effort  is  not  very  successful.  Pres- 
ently, just  after  the  bell  at  the  City  Hall  has  given 

127 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

its    eight   o'clock   stroke,    the   Warden   appears 
quietly  at  the  opening  of  my  cell. 

"Something  has   happened,"   I   begin  breath-, 
lessly;  "I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  it  ought  to 
be  looked  into " 

I  come  to  an  abrupt  stop,  for  I  am  suddenly 
aware  of  the  figure  of  a  man  standing  in  the 
shadow  just  behind  the  Warden. 

"Who  is  that?"  I  ask,  and  he  steps  farther 
along  the  gallery,  but  not  where  the  light  from 
the  cell  can  strike  him. 

"Only  the  night  officer,"  answers  the  Warden. 

That  is  all  very  well;  but  why  was  the  night 
officer  lurking  in  the  dark  behind  the  Warden? 
I  decide  to  ask  him  a  plain,  direct  question;  for 
he  has  already  heard  what  is  uppermost  in  my 
mind. 

"Captain,"  I  say,  politely,  "what  was  that 
noise  I  heard  a  short  while  ago?" 

The  officer,  pretending  that  he  has  not  heard 
my  question,  turns  to  the  Warden  with  some  per- 
fectly irrelevant  remark,  and  moves  off,  along  the 
gallery. 

It  strikes  me  as  a  curious  proceeding. 

"Warden,"  I  begin  again,  after  waiting  until 
the  man  must  be  out  of  hearing,  "I  heard  shout- 
ing off  in  the  corridor  somewhere,  not  very  long 
ago;  and  I  am  afraid  something  bad  has  hap- 
pened. Would  it  not  be  well  to  find  out  about  it?" 

This  the  Warden  promises  to  do,  so  I  stifle 
128 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING 

my  fears  as  best  I  can  and  turn  to  the  events  of 
the  day.  I  report  progress;  and  we  again  debate 
.  whether  or  not  I  had  better  make  a  change  of 
occupation.  Last  evening  we  decided  that  I  should 
remain  still  another  day  in  the  basket-shop;  for 
it  seemed  as  if  I  were  getting  as  much  out  of  my 
experience  there  as  I  could  anywhere.  The  War- 
den is  inclined  to  agree  with  me  that  we  have 
been  singularly  fortunate  so  far,  in  the  working 
out  of  our  plans,  and  that  it  might  be  a  mistake 
to  change.  Jack  Murphy,  when  I  talked  with 
him  about  it  to-day,  said,  "What  good  would  it 
do  you,  to  go  and  work  in  a  shop  where  you  can't 
talk?  You  can  learn  everything  there  is  to  know 
about  such  a  shop  by  spending  ten  minutes  there, 
any  time."  Then  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "You 
know,  Brown,  we  don't  want  to  lose  you  here." 
I  hope  this  last  is  true,  and  I  think  it  is ;  but,  aside 
from  that,  his  reasoning  impresses  me  as  good. 

So  the  Warden  and  I  agree  that  I  am  to  stay 
in  the  basket-shop  at  least  another  day,  and  he 
leaves  me  to  my  thoughts  and  my  fears. 

I  shall  now  put  away  this  journal,  and  prepare 
my  bed  for  the  night.  I  fear  that  my  sleep  will 
be  haunted  by  echoes  of  those  dreadful  sounds. 


It  may  be  well  to  interrupt  my  journal  here,  and  ex- 
plain the  noises  of  Wednesday  evening.  As  will  be 
seen  in  Thursday's  journal,  I  heard  many  of  the  details 

129 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

the  next  day,  but  it  was  some  time  before  I  learned  the 
whole  story.  I  have  examined  personally  several  eye- 
witnesses of  the  occurrences  and  am  convinced  that  the 
following  statement  is  accurate. 

There  had  lately  been  sent  up  from  Sing  Sing  a  young 
prisoner  named  Lavinsky.  He  is  physically  a  weak  youth ; 
pale,  thin,  and  undersized.  His  weight  is  about  one 
hundred  and  twenty  pounds;  his  age,  twenty-one.  On 
the  charge  of  being  impertinent  to  the  officer  of  his  shop, 
he  was  sent  down  to  the  jail,  as  the  punishment  cells  are 
called,  and  kept  there  for  five  days  in  the  dark  on  bread 
and  water.  Then  he  was  allowed  to  go  back  to  work. 
He  did  so,  but  was  of  course  utterly  unfit  for  work. 
The  next  day  he  was  ill  and  remained  in  his  cell,  which 
was  on  the  fourth  tier  on  the  south  side  of  the  north 
wing.  This  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  cell-block 
from  where  I  locked  in,  and  a  considerable  distance  down 
toward  the  western  end  of  the  wing;  which  accounts  for 
my  not  hearing  more  distinctly  the  sounds  which  aroused 
in  me  such  feelings  of  terror. 

The  day  that  Lavinsky  returned  to  work  was  Tues- 
day, my  second  day  in  prison.  On  Wednesday  he  was 
afflicted  with  severe  diarrhea  all  day,  but  for  some  rea- 
son, in  spite  of  his  repeated  requests,  the  doctor  was  not 
summoned.  The  reason  probably  was  that  Lavinsky  was 
in  the  state  known  in  prison  as  bughouse — that  is  to  say, 
at  least  flighty  if  not  temporarily  out  of  his  mind.  He 
himself,  as  I  have  subsequently  found  in  talking  with 
him,  has  no  very  distinct  recollection  of  the  events  of  that 
Wednesday  evening.  If  not  out  of  his  mind,  he  was 
certainly  not  fully  possessed  of  it. 

In  the  evening,  after  his  failure  to  get  the  doctor, 

130 


WEDNESDAY   EVENING 

Lavinsky  created  some  disturbance  by  calling  out  remarks 
which  violated  the  quiet  of  the  cell-block.  I  understand 
that  the  form  this  took  was  something  of  this  sort:  "If 
you  want  to  kill  me,  why  don't  you  do  it  at  once,  and 
not  torture  me  to  death?"  He  seemed  to  be  possessed 
with  the  idea  that  his  life  was  in  danger.  I  do  not 
know  in  what  condition  he  was  when  first  placed  in 
jail,  but  I  do  know  that  the  time  he  spent  down  in  that 
hellhole,  five  days,  was  quite  sufficient  to  account  for 
his  mental  condition  when  he  came  out. 

Now  here  was  a  young  man,  hardly  more  than  a  lad, 
in  a  sick  and  nervous  condition  that  had  produced  tem- 
porary derangement  of  mind.  What  course  did  the  Sys- 
tem take  in  dealing  with  that  suffering  human  being? 
Two  keepers  opened  his  cell,  made  a  rush  for  him,  and 
knocked  him  down.  One  eye-witness  says  that  they 
black-jacked  him,  that  is,  rendered  him  unconscious  by 
striking  him  on  the  head  with  the  instrument  of  that 
name.  During  the  brief  scuffle  in  the  cell  the  iron  pail 
and  the  bucket  were  overturned.  Then,  after  being  hand- 
cuffed, the  unresisting  if  not  unconscious  youth  was  flung 
out  of  his  cell  with  such  violence  that,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  a  convict  trusty  who  stood  by,  he  would  have  slipped 
under  the  rail  of  the  gallery  and  fallen  to  the  stone  floor 
of  the  corridor  four  stories  below,  and  been  either  killed 
or  crippled  for  life. 

Then  the  two  keepers,  being  reinforced  by  a  third, 
dragged  their  victim  roughly  downstairs,  partly  on  his 
back,  kicked  and  beat  him  on  the  way,  and  carried  him 
before  the  Principal  Keeper,  who  promptly  sent  him 
down  to  the  jail  again. 

Let  it  be  remembered  that  this  poor  fellow  is  a  slight, 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

undersized,  feeble  specimen  of  humanity,  whom  one  able- 
bodied  man  ought  to  have  had  little  trouble  in  handling — 
even  if  any  use  of  force  were  necessary. 

This  scene  of  violence  could  not  pass  unnoticed;  and 
the  loud  protests  and  outcries  of  the  prisoners  whose 
cells  were  near  by,  as  they  heard  and  saw  the  treatment 
accorded  to  their  helpless  comrade,  were  the  sounds  I 
heard  far  away  in  my  cell.  One  of  the  trusties  who, 
having  the  freedom  of  the  corridors,  was  enabled  to  see 
most  of  the  occurrence,  so  far  forgot  his  position  as  to 
venture  the  opinion  that  it  was  a  "pretty  raw  deal." 
This  remark  was  overheard  by  an  officer;  and  the  trusty 
at  once  received  the  warning  that  he  had  better  keep  his 
mouth  shut  and  not  talk  about  what  didn't  concern 
him. 

If  it  is  realized  that  these  officers  have  what  almost 
amounts  to  the  power  of  life  and  death  over  the  convicts, 
it  can  be  understood  that  such  a  warning  was  not  one 
to  be  lightly  disregarded. 

Lavinsky,  having  been  landed  again  in  the  jail,  was 
kept  there  from  Wednesday  evening  until  Saturday 
afternoon.  What  special  care  or  attention  was  given  him 
during  that  time  I  am  unable  to  state,  but  there  is  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  any  exception  was  made  in  his 
case.  Like  the  other  denizens  of  the  jail,  he  was  fed 
only  on  bread  and  a  very  insufficient  quantity  of  water — 
three  gills  in  twenty-four  hours — and  also  experienced 
the  intolerable  conditions  of  that  vile  place. 

On  Saturday  afternoon,  three  days  later,  he  was  still 
down  there,  and  still  bughouse.  Then  as  there  was  a 
disturbing  rumor  among  the  officials  that  I  was  plan- 
ning to  be  sent  to  the  jail,  he  was  taken  away  about  an 

132 


WEDNESDAY   EVENING 

hour  before  my  arrival.  His  cell  was  the  very  one 
which  I  occupied,  after  it  had  been  thoroughly  cleaned. 
He  was  removed  from  the  jail  to  a  special  cell,  where 
his  case  was  taken  up  personally  by  the  Warden,  and 
where  the  poor  youth  was  at  last  put  under  the  care 
of  the  doctor,  and  received  some  humane  and  sensible 
treatment.  When  I  first  saw  him,  some  three  weeks 
after  my  term  had  ended,  he  had  not  become  entirely 
rational,  although  he  has  since  recovered  himself.  As  I 
have  already  said,  he  had  at  first  no  clear  recollection 
of  the  brutal  treatment  of  which  he  had  been  the  victim, 
nor  in  fact  of  anything  that  occurred  at  the  time.  Per- 
haps it  was  all  the  better  that  this  was  so. 

An  exceptionally  intelligent  convict,  whose  term  ex- 
pired soon  after  these  events,  and  who  could  have  had 
no  earthly  object  in  misrepresenting  the  matter,  described 
to  me  after  his  release  the  episode  in  detail.  He  had  been 
an  eye-witness  of  the  entire  occurrence,  as  he  was  standing 
on  the  gallery  where  he  could  see  everything  that  hap- 
pened. He  summed  it  up  in  these  exact  words:  "Mr. 
Osborn  ,  it  was  one  of  the  most  brutal  things  that  I  have 
ever  teen,  in  a!'.'  my  experience  in  prison." 

Hie  story  is  fully  corroborated  by  what  I  have  learned, 
upon  careful  inquiry  from  other  men. 

Doubtless  some  will  say  that  the  statements  of  con- 
victs are  not  to  be  believed.  That  touches  upon  one  of 
the  very  worst  features  of  the  situation.  No  discrimina- 
tion is  ever  made.  It  is  not  admitted  that,  while  one 
convict  may  be  a  liar,  another  may  be  entirely  truthful; 
that  men  differ  in  prison  exactly  as  in  the  world  outside. 

133 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

It  is  held,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  they  are  all 
liars,  and  an  officer's  word  will  be  taken  against  that  of 
a  convict  or  any  number  of  convicts.  The  result  is  that 
the  officers  feel  themselves  practically  immune  from  any 
evil  consequences  to  them  from  their  own  acts  of  in- 
justice or  violence.  What  follows  from  this  is  inevitable. 
Our  prisons  have  often  been  the  scenes  of  intolerable  bru- 
tality, for  which  it  has  been  useless  for  the  victims  to  seek 
redress.  They  can  only  cower  and  endure  in  silence;  or 
be  driven  into  insanity  by  a  hopeless  revolt  against  the 
System. 

Not  so  very  long  ago  one  of  the  prisoners  at  Auburn, 
on  a  hot  night  in  summer,  as  an  officer  was  shutting  the 
windows  in  the  corridor  outside,  called  out  from  his 
cell,  "Oh,  Captain,  can't  you  let  us  have  a  little  more 
air?" 

The  officer  promptly  went  to  the  tier  of  cells  whence 
the  voice  came  and  made  a  chalk-mark  around  the  key- 
hole of  one  of  the  locks.  When  a  man  is  "round-chalked" 
he  is  not  released  when  the  rest  of  the  prisoners  are  let 
out  of  their  cells,  but  reserved  for  punishment.  In  this 
case  the  officer  mistook  the  cell  from  which  the  voice 
had  come,  and  round-chalked  the  prisoner  who  was  locked 
in  next  to  the  one  who  had  dared  to  ask  for  more  air. 

The  next  morning,  finding  that  his  neighbor  was 
about  to  receive  the  punishment  intended  for  himself,  the 
culprit  promptly  told  the  officer  that  he  was  the  guilty 
party,  and  if  anyone  was  to  be  punished,  he  ought  to 
be.  This  honorable  action  was  allowed  no  weight.  He 
had  some  of  his  hard-earned  money  taken  away  from  him, 
three  days  of  his  commutation  cancelled,  and  the  disc 

134 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING 

removed  from  his  sleeve  as  a  mark  of  disgrace;  in  short, 
he  was  severely  punished — as  his  innocent  neighbor 
would  have  been,  had  he  not  prevented  it  by  taking  the 
punishment  upon  himself. 

The  point  is  this:  that  no  convict  has  any  rights — not 
even  the  right  to  be  believed;  not  even  the  right  to  rea- 
sonably considerate  treatment.  He  is  exposed  without 
safeguard  of  any  sort  to  whatever  outrage  an  inconsider- 
ate or  brutal  keeper  may  choose  to  inflic:  upon  him;  and 
you  cannot  under  the  present  system  guard  against  such 
inconsiderate  and  brutal  treatment. 

I  should  not  like  to  be  understood  as  asserting  that 
all  keepers  are  brutal,  or  even  a  majority  of  them.  I 
hope  and  believe  that  by  far  the  greater  number  of  the 
officers  serving  in  our  prisons  are  naturally  honorable  and 
kindly  men,  but  so  were  the  slave-owners  before  the 
Civil  War.  And  just  as  it  was  perfectly  fair  to  judge 
of  the  right  and  wrong  of  slavery  not  by  any  question  of 
the  fair  treatment  of  the  majority  of  slaves,  but  by  the 
hideous  possibilities  which  frequently  became  no  less  hid- 
eous facts,  so  we  must  recognize,  in  dealing  with  our 
Prison  System,  that  many  really  well-meaning  men  will 
operate  a  system  in  which  the  brutality  of  an  officer  goes 
unpunished,  often  in  a  brutal  manner. 

The  reason  of  this  is  not  far  to  seek — a  reason  which 
also  obtained  in  the  slave  system.  The  most  common 
and  powerful  impulse  that  drives  an  ordinary,  well-mean- 
ing man  to  brutality  is  fear.  Raise  the  cry  of  "Fire"  in 
a  crowded  place,  and  many  an  excellent  person  will  dis- 
card in  the  frantic  moment  every  vestige  of  civilization. 
The  elemental  brute  will  emerge,  and  he  will  trample 

135 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

down  women  and  children,  will  perform  almost  any  crime 
in  the  calendar  in  his  mad  rush  for  safety.  The  truth  of 
this  has  been  demonstrated  many  times. 

In  prison,  where  each  officer  believes  that  his  life  is 
in  constant  danger,  the  keeper  tends  to  become  callous, 
the  sense  of  that  danger  blunts  his  higher  qualities.  He 
comes  to  regard  with  mingled  contempt  and  fear  those 
dumb,  gray  creatures  over  whom  he  has  such  irresponsible 
power — creatures  who  can  at  any  moment  rise  in  revolt 
and  2,ive  him  the  death  blew.  And  as  they  undoubtedly 
possess  that  power,  he  is  always  fearful  that  they  may 
use  it,  /or  are  they  not  dangerous  "criminals"?  And 
undoubtedly  there  is  basis  for  his  fear,  for  some  of  those 
men  arc  dangerous,  rendered  more  so  by  the  nerve-rack- 
ing System. 

~  cai;  conceive  no  more  terribly  disintegrating  mofal 
experience  than  that  of  being  r,  keeper  over  convicts. 
However  much  I  pity  the  prisoners,  I  think  that  spir- 
itually their  position  is  far  preferable  to  that  of  their 
guards.  These  latter  are  placed  in  an  impossible  posi- 
tion; for  they  are  not  to  blame  for  the  System  under 
which  their  finer  qualities  have  so  few  chances  of  being 
exercised. 

But  i  have  been  betrayed  into  rather  more  of  r,  dis- 
cussion than  I  intended,  a  discussion  out  of  place  in  this 
chronicle  of  facts.  I  have  inserted  so  much  by  way 
of  explanation  both  of  what  I  have  narrated  in  the 
foregoing  chapter  and  of  what  I  shall  have  to  tell  in 
those  that  are  to  come. 

Since  the  above  was  written  I  have  run  across  a  passage 
in  a  book  on  English  prisons  which  confirms  so  strik- 

136 


WEDNESDAY    EVENING 

ingly  one  of  the  statements  just  expressed  that  room 
must  be  made  for  it.  "The  real  atmosphere  of  Dart- 
moor," says  the  author,  Mr.  Albert  Paterson,  writing 
of  Dartmoor  Prison,  "so  far  as  the  men  responsible  for 
its  well-!  ^ing  and  discipline  are  concerned,  is  that  of  a 
handful  of  whites  on  the  American  frontier  among  ten 
times  their  number  of  Apache  Indians.  'We  stand  on  a 
volcano,'  an  officer  said  to  the  writer  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone.  'If  our  convicts  here  had  opportunity  to  combine 
and  could  trust  one  another,  the  place  would  be  wrecked 
iri  an  hour.' " 

Aside  from  the  author's  ridiculously  belated  simile  of 
the  American  frontier,  we  have  here  an  accurate  and 
forcible  statement  of  the  prison  keeper's  constant  nerv- 
ous apprehension  of  danger  and  the  necessity  of  being 
prepared  at  any  moment  to  sell  his  life  as  dearly  as  pos- 
sible. And,  of  course,  this  feeling  of  the  keeper  in- 
creases his  severity  and  the  severity  increases  the  danger, 
and  so  we  have  the  vicious  circle  complete. 

I  am  not  now  in  any  way  disputing  the  necessity  of  a 
keeper  beinc  constantly  on  his  guard,  "  an*1  not  saying 
whether  this  view  of  things  is  right  or  wrong,  and  when 
I  use  the  word  fear  I  do  not  mean  cowardice — a  very 
different  thing,  for  a  brave  man  can  feel  fear.  I  am 
simply  trying  to  point  out  that  in  prison,  as  elsewhere, 
when  men  are  dominated  by  fear,  brutality  is  the  in* 
evitable  result. 


CHAPTER   X 

THURSDAY 
In  my  cell,  Thursday  evening,  October  2. 


THIS  morning  is  cloudy  and  dark;  it  has  been 
raining  heavily  during  the  night,  and  the 
atmosphere  is  damp  and  oppressive.    Op- 
pressive too  5"  the  feeling  left  by  the  unexplained 
occurrences  of  last  evening. 

My  first  visitor  is  Officer  X,  the  man  who 
wouldn't  answer  my  question  last  evening  when 
he  was  standing  back  of  the  Warden  and  I  asked 
him  what  that  noise  was.  This  morning  he  is 
exceedingly  bland  and  also,  like  the  weather,  op- 
pressive. He  is  so  very  anxious  to  know  how 
I  passed  the  night;  and  I  tell  him.  He  then  says 
that  a  thousand  people  have  inquired  of  him 
about  me;  and  I  remark  that  I'm  glad  my  ex- 
periment is  arousing  so  much  interest.  He  then 
says  that  several  men  have  said  to  him  that  I 
must  have  something  special  in  -mind,  that  I  mus' 

138 


THURSDAY 

be  here  for  some  ulterior  purpose,  and  they  be- 
lieve the  result  will  be  some  dismissals  among 
the  officers;  to  which  I  say  that  doubtless  there 
are  many  people  who,  not  having  taken  the 
trouble  to  read  my  address  in  the  chapel  last  Sun- 
day, although  it  was  printed  in  the  newspapers, 
are  quite  ready  to  believe  anything  except  the 
simple  truth. 

He  then  enters  upon  a  long  rigmarole,  the 
gist  of  which  is  how  necessary  it  is  for  a  man 
to  do  his  duty;  with  which  novel  sentiment  I  ex- 
press my  entire  agreement.  Then  he  adds  that 
he  has  always  been  careful  to  do  his  own  duty; 
upon  which  I  make  the  startling  comment  that 
it  is  in  the  long  run  the  best  course  to  pursue. 
Then  he  casually  turns  the  conversation  around 
to  show  how  closely  connected  he  is  to  various 
admirers  of  my  father  and  myself,  and  gracefully 
insinuates  that  he  also  shares  these  feelings;  to 
which  I  can  answer  nothing,  as  this  sort  of  thing 
always  reduces  me  to  embarrassed  and  wrathful 
silence.  I  hate  to  tell  a  man  that  he's  a  fool,  and 
I  hate  quite  as  much  to  have  him  take  me  for 
one. 

As  the  officer  stands  there  talking,  it  is  borne 
in  upon  me  that  he  not  only  knows  all  about  last 
night's  disturbance,  but  that  he  was  probably 
concerned  in  it,  and  is  now  deliberately  trying 
to  switch  me  off  the  track.  He  would  not  answer 
my  question  last  night,  and  he  avoids  all  reference 

139 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

to  the  matter  this  morning,  substituting  for  the 
explanation  which  he  knows  I  want,  for  he  heard 
me  speak  to  the  Warden  about  it  last  evening, 
all  this  stuff  I  have  outlined.  Instead  of  being 
frank  and  telling  the  plain  truth  about  last  night's 
occurrence,  he  is  trying  to  flatter  me  and  pull  the 
wool  over  my  eyes. 

He  walks  away  and  the  taste  in  my  mouth  is 
not  pleasant. 

Soon  Captain  Kane  unlocks  the  levers,  and 
George  presses  them  down  to  release  us  for  a 
new  day.  I  regret  to  say  that  I  again  create 
some  confusion  on  the  gallery  by  being  late;  but, 
as  there  is  trouble  with  the  lock  on  the  tier 
around  the  corner,  I  catch  up  while  the  front  of 
the  line  is  held  back  by  the  delay. 

Marching  down  the  yard,  my  interest  is  aroused 
by  a  long,  whispered  conversation  between  Roger 
Landry  at  my  side  and  Jack  Bell  who  is  immedi- 
ately in  front  of  him.  Neither  is  farther  than 
a  foot  or  so  away,  yet  my  ears  are  not  sensitive 
enough  to  catch  a  single  word  of  what  they  say; 
and  when  I  glance  toward  Landry  I  am  unable 
to  detect  the  faintest  motion  of  his  lips,  although 
the  talk  is  still  going  on. 

Upon  return  from  bucket  duty  I  sweep  out  the 
cell,  finding  it  for  some  reason  especially  dirty. 
Soon  after  I  have  finished  this  task,  I  come  into 
possession,  through  a  channel  it  is  best  not  to 

140 


THURSDAY 

specify,  of  an  account  of  last  night's  perform- 
ance, including  the  names  of  most  of  the  actors. 
I  judge  that  it  is  a  bad  business.  This  is  the 
story  as  it  comes  to  me.1 

Three  of  the  officers,  among  them  X  (just  as 
I  suspected),  went  into  the  cell  of  a  young  pris- 
oner on  one  of  the  upper  tiers  of  the  south  side, 
hit  him  over  the  head,  handcuffed  and  dragged 
him  downstairs  very  roughly.  His  offense  seems 
to  have  been  that  he  is  bughouse  through  con- 
finement in  the  jail.  So  in  their  enlightened  wis- 
dom they  have  sent  him  back  there ;  to  cure  him, 
I  suppose,  on  the  homeopathic  principle,  similia 
similibus  curantur. 

Before  the  march  to  breakfast  George  kindly 
brings  me  another  package  of  sugar.  It  is  evi- 
dently of  distinct  advantage,  in  more  ways  than 
one,  to  stand  well  with  the  trusties;  I  wish  I 
knew  them  all,  but  possibly  some  may  be  afraid 
to  show  themselves  at  the  door  of  my  cell.  I 
have  a  vague  feeling  that  it  is  being  closely 
watched. 

Breakfast  to-day  consists  of  some  kind  of  por- 

1  This,  of  course,  is  the  same  incident  that  has  already 
been  given  in  the  supplementary  pages  of  the  pre- 
vious chapter,  but  I  insert  it  again  as  a  part  of  my 
journal.  It  illustrates  the  way  news  circulates  about  the 
prison. 

141 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

ridge,  with  the  usual  bootleg  and  punk.  Thanks 
to  George,  I  do  not  need  the  sugar  which  Landry 
again  offers  me;  and,  having  more  than  enough 
for  my  own  portion  of  porridge,  I  silently  pass 
what  I  have  left  to  my  neighbor  on  the  other 
side,  who  receives  it  without  daring  to  express 
any  evidence  of  gratitude. 

Arrived  back  in  my  cell,  George  stops  to  have 
a  pleasant  chat  with  me,  and  tells  me  a  little  about 
himself  and  his  experiences.  Then,  after  the 
usual  operations  attendant  upon  our  release  from 
the  cells,  we  march  down  the  yard  and  arrive 
at  the  basket-shop,  ready  for  the  business  of  the 
day. 

Murphy  is  on  hand  with  his  usual  cheerful 
smile : 

"Well,  good  morning,  Tom." 

"Good  morning,  Jack."  And  upon  this  more 
intimate  footing  we  commence  our  fourth  day's 
work  together. 

As  I  left  a  bottom  incomplete  last  evening,  I 
begin  work  with  vigor  in  order  to  finish  it;  but 
unfortunately  the  rattan  we  are  now  using  is  so 
stiff  and  rotten  that  it  not  only  breaks  constantly 
and  is  very  hard  on  the  fingers,  but  makes  good 
workmanship  quite  impossible.  Finally  we  are 
compelled  to  stop  altogether,  while  the  withes 
are  taken  and  soaked  in  hot  water,  instead  of  the 
cold  water  in  which  they  have  been  lying  over 
night.  Once  in  a  while  we  have  been  getting 

142 


THURSDAY 

soft  and  pliable  withes  that  make  work  easy  and 
pleasant,  but  most  of  them  have  been  very  brittle 
and  difficult  to  handle. 

While  we  are  waiting  for  material,  I  hear  the 
name  of  Brown  called  out;  and  find  that  I  am 
told  off,  along  with  Jack  and  a  number  of  others, 
to  help  pull  up  another  car.  This  time  it  is 
lumber  and  not  coal ;  the  identical  lumber,  in  fact, 
that  stood  in  front  of  the  north  windows  and 
caused  the  P.  K.  such  anxiety  about  our  eyesight 
yesterday  afternoon. 

The  gang  is  duly  counted  and  handed  over  to 
the  officer  charged  with  the  job;  and  soon  we 
are  enjoying  the  exercise  of  successive  tugs  of  war 
with  the  block  and  tackle,  similar  to  those  of 
Tuesday.  It  is  not  so  hard  a  job  as  that  was, 
however,  there  being  but  one  car  and  that  a 
comparatively  light  one;  so  Jack  and  I  regret 
that  our  spell  of  exercise  is  not  longer  and 
stronger.  It  is  far  better  than  nothing,  however, 
and  we  return,  refreshed  and  invigorated,  to  our 
basket-work. 

While  we  are  waiting  for  working  material, 
Jack  approaches  me  cautiously,  leaning  against  the 
table  with  a  very  listless  air,  as  if  nothing  were 
further  from  his  thoughts  than  a  subject  of  seri- 
ous import. 

"Did  you  hear  anything  last  night,  Tom?"  he 
asks,  turning  his  face  just  enough  in  my  direction 

143 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

to  reach  me  with  his  voice,  which  is  subdued  to 
its  lowest  tone. 

"Did  I?  I  should  think  I  did,"  is  my  low 
reply.  "What  can  you  tell  me  about  it?" 

Jack  repeats  the  story  substantially  as  I  have 
already  heard  it.  The  affair  happened  in  one  of 
the  upper  tiers  almost  directly  over  him,  but  he 
could  see  nothing  of  it,  and  he  only  heard  the 
details  through  others.  He  thinks  it  is  a  bad 
matter,  and  adds  one  new  item  of  information. 
He  says  that  a  certain  trusty  has  threatened  to 
go  to  the  Warden  about  the  case;  he  told  the 
P.  K.  to  his  face  that  he  would  do  so,  and  the 
P.  K.  threatened  the  trusty  with  retaliation  if  he 
did;  but  that  the  man  feels  so  outraged  by  the 
brutality  he  witnessed  that  he  intends  to  do  it  in 
spite  of  the  P.  K.1 

I  know  this  particular  trusty  and  should  be 
sorry  to  have  him  get  the  ill-will  of  the  P.  K., 
or  any  of  the  prison  authorities.  So  I  decide  to 
try  to  take  steps  to  prevent  this.  Convicts,  as  I 
have  already  hinted,  have  underground  means 
of  communication  of  which  the  officials  do  not 
always  know. 

The  truth  of  this  last  statement  was  demon- 

1  There  were  some  small  inaccuracies  in  Jack's  tale,  es- 
pecially this  account  of  the  trusty  and  the  P.  K.  The 
facts  are  as  stated  in  the  last  chapter.  I  have  let  this 
passage  remain,  however,  as  it  represents  what  I  heard 
and  understood  at  the  time. 

144 


THURSDAY 

strated  in  an  interesting  way  this  morning.  Strict 
orders  were  given  by  the  Warden  when  I  first 
came  here  that  there  was  to  be  no  photographing. 
We  cannot  prevent  publicity  about  this  affair  of 
mine.  But  at  least  we  can,  and  have,  cut  out 
the  moving  pictures;  and  discouraged  other  at- 
tempts to  exploit  and  emphasize  the  personal  side 
of  it.  It  is  not  our  fault  if  many  of  the  news- 
papers print  ridiculous  statements  which  are  not 
founded  upon  fact. 

I  have,  by  the  way,  been  seeing  a  number  of 
newspapers,  as  the  men  in  the  shop  are  all  keenly 
interested  and  are  anxious  to  share  with  me  any 
"Tom  Brown  dope"  that  comes  their  way.  Every 
day  half  a  dozen  papers  reach  me  in  roundabout 
ways.  I  always  read  them,  taking  care  to  lurk 
behind  a  post  or  otherwise  screen  myself  from 
the  eye  of  the  Screw.  Captain  Kane,  like  Cap- 
tain Lamb,  evidently  feels  that  it  is  well  to  temper 
discipline  with  tact  and  discretion.  He  is  firm  in 
manner,  quiet  and  self-contained,  allowing  no 
liberties  from  anyone,  but  evidently  bent  upon 
doing  his  duty  and  at  the  same  time  being  kindly 
and  fair  in  his  treatment  of  the  men. 

What  I  started  to  say  was  that  the  order 
against  photography  was  obeyed  until  to-day. 
There  is  doubtless  a  good  reason  for  this  morn- 
ing's exception — I  have  to  leave  that  for  the 
Warden  to  explain;  but  while  Jack  and  I  were 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

talking,  one  of  the  convicts  passing  behind  me 
said  in  an  undertone,  "Look  out,  Brown!  Cam- 
era inside." 

In  due  course  of  time,  Grant  makes  his  appear- 
ance, showing  around  a  visitor  who  carries  a 
kodak.  He  makes  no  attempt  to  exercise  the  ma- 
chine in  our  neighborhood,  and  is  simply  shown 
through  like  any  other  visitor.  Not  long  after  he 
is  gone  the  hour  of  noon  approaches.  We  form 
in  due  order,  and,  while  awaiting  the  signal  to 
start,  for  the  first  time  I  dare  to  turn  my  head 
sufficiently  to  get  a  good  look  at  the  dapper  young 
prisoner  who  leads  the  right  line  of  our  company, 
the  back  of  whose  head  and  manner  of  marching 
had  so  pleased  me.  And  whom  should  I  discover 
him  to  be  but  my  own  boss,  Harley  Stuhlmiller. 
Here  have  I  been  three  days  marching  behind  him 
ten  times  a  day,  and  seeing  him  at  frequent  in- 
tervals all  day  long  in  the  shop ;  and  now  for  the 
first  time  I  am  able  to  match  his  face  and  the  back 
of  his  head  together.  This  gives  a  good  idea  of 
the  remoteness  of  man  and  man  in  this  unnatural 
place. 

We  make  our  usual  march  down  to  the  stands, 
where  each  man  secures  his  bucket,  and  then  back 
up  the  length  of  the  yard. 

Sure  enough — there  he  is.  The  camera  fiend 
is  standing  with  Grant  and  some  others  just  out- 
side of  the  main  door.  Evidently  he  has  not  been 
told  that  at  noon  we  turn  aside  to  the  door  lead- 

146 


THURSDAY 

ing  into  the  north  wing;  it  is  only  at  night  that 
we  march  directly  into  the  main  building  in  order 
to  secure  our  bread  for  supper.  The  men  quickly 
catch  the  humor  of  the  situation,  and  there  is  a 
deal  of  quiet  enjoyment  of  the  photographer's 
disappointment.  He  hastens  down  toward  us, 
but  only  succeeds  in  snapping  our  rear  ranks  as 
we  enter  the  building.  Tom  Brown  has  escaped 
him. 

It  is  certainly  wonderful  how  news  gets  about 
in  this  prison.  From  what  the  Warden  tells  me 
this  evening,  it  could  not  have  been  more  than 
half  an  hour  after  the  man  with  his  kodak  entered 
the  front  gate  before  the  warning  of  his  camera 
was  received  by  me,  over  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  yard.  The  Marconi  system  hasn't  very  much 
advantage  in  speed  over  the  wireless  telegraphy 
of  the  prison. 

My  first  action  upon  getting  back  to  the  cell 
is  to  get  my  own  telegraphic  system  in  working 
order,  so  as  to  get  word  to  thai'  trusty  who  has 
threatened  to  go  to  the  Warden  about  last  night's 
occurrence.  I  want  him  told  not  to  attempt  to 
go  over  the  head  of  the  P.  K.,  but  to  leave  the 
whole  matter  to  me.  I  send  two  messages  through 
the  secret  channels  and  then  get  ready  for  dinner. 

That  meal,  when  we  reach  the  mess-hall,  turns 
out  to  be  corned  beef,  potatoes,  an  excellent 
pickled  beet,  and  the  usual  bread  and  coffee.  I 

147 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

eat  with  more  relish  than  usual,  and  find  the  time 
allotted  for  the  meal  altogether  too  short  for  a 
proper  enjoyment  of  it.  Or  perhaps  the  word 
enjoyment  is  a  little  too  strong — let  us  say,  for  a 
proper  disposal  of  it. 

Upon  returning  to  my  cell  I  find  a  piece  of 
paper  folded  up  to  its  smallest  capacity  lying  on 
the  floor.  It  is  a  note  from  one  of  my  fellow 
prisoners — a  kite,  to  use  the  proper  term.  I  have 
been  receiving  such  documents  ever  since  I  came. 
They  reach  me  in  all  sorts  of  ways;  all  of  which 
ways  are  of  course  forbidden.  Some  of  the  notes 
are  business-like,  some  are  rambling  and  inco- 
herent, some  are  sad,  some  are  humorous,  all  are 
characteristic  and  good  tempered.  The  majority 
contain  requests  to  see  the  writers,  after  I  get 
through  my  bit.  Some  go  into  long  accounts  of 
themselves  and  their  experiences.  One  has  writ- 
ten a  good-sized  pamphlet,  telling  his  life-story 
in  considerable  detail.  All  of  them  are  filled 
with  a  pathetic  sense  of  gratitude  toward  Tom 
Brown,  their  new  pal.  They  seem  to  think  that 
I  am  making  an  unheard-of  sacrifice  for  their 
sakes. 

It  is  curious  how  far  away  is  the  feeling  of 
dread  of  this  place  that  I  used  to  have;  that  I 
must  confess  to  have  had  even  when  I  decided 
to  come  here.  Exactly  the  same,  I  imagine,  as 
one  would  feel  about  entering  a  den  of  wild 
beasts,  except  that  these  were  capable  of  being 

148 


THURSDAY 

talked  to  and  reasoned  with.  I  suppose  I  did 
have  some  little,  a  very  little,  notion  of  personal 
danger,  which  now  seems  wholly  absurd.  I  have 
at  present  a  sense  of  companionship  and  sympathy 
with  these  men,  as  warm  and  strong  as  I  have  ever 
felt  anywhere.  It  is  accompanied,  of  course,  by 
a  great  feeling  of  pity  for  their  mistakes,  the 
bitterness  of  their  expiation,  and  the  well-nigh 
hopeless  difficulty  under  present  conditions  of  re- 
gaining their  hold  upon  life. 

After  the  regular  period  of  rest  in  the  cell 
after  dinner,  and  my  usual  calls  from  the  trusties, 
we  march  back  to  the  shop.  The  routine  is  al- 
ways the  same.  Again  I  hear  the  clicking  far 
away  to  the  left  around  the  corner.  Whereupon 
I  rise  from  my  shelf-table,  unhook  and  drop  it 
down,  put  away  my  writing  materials  in  the 
locker,  and  don  my  coat  and  cap.  Again  the 
Captain  passes  by,  unlocking  the  levers  as  he 
goes.  He  quickly  finishes  the  remainder  of  the 
cells  on  this  side  of  the  tier,  then  repasses,  press- 
ing down  each  lever  just  long  enough  to  allow 
the  grated  door  to  be  pushed  open  by  the  prisoner 
waiting  inside.  Again  I  shove  my  door  open  as 
quickly  as  possible  and  follow  immediately  after 
the  Captain;  for  all  the  men  who  belong  in  front 
of  me  in  the  line  lock  in  farther  along  the  gallery. 
When  we  reach  their  cells  I  drop  behind  enough 
to  give  them  their  proper  places,  and  thus  there 

149 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

is  a  minimum  of  disorder  when  we  have  descended 
the  flight  of  iron  stairs  to  the  door  and  are  lining 
up  in  double  column  for  our  march  down  the 
yard. 

The  marches  too  are  always  the  same — day 
after  day — with  only  slight  variations;  as  for  in- 
stance the  one  after  breakfast  when,  as  it  is 
unnecessary  to  visit  the  sewage  disposal  building, 
we  march  directly  to  the  shop.  But  this  after- 
noon it  is  the  same  as  all  afternoons;  short-step  at 
first  until  all  the  company  have  reached  the  walk; 
then  a  rap  of  the  keeper's  stick  and  full-step  down 
the  yard;  swing  around  to  the  left;  through  the 
sewage  disposal  building  for  the  benefit  of  the  few 
who  bring  down  their  buckets  in  the  afternoon;  a 
momentary  pause  at  the  stands  and  then  away  to 
the  shop.  As  we  go  down  the  half  dozen  steps 
into  the  building  we  break  ranks  and  Jack  Mur- 
phy comes  up  from  his  place,  somewhere  in  the 
rear,  with  his  usual  pleasant  greeting. 

"Well,  Tom,  how  did  you  enjoy  your  dinner?" 

"It  was  all  right,  only  to-day  I  didn't  have  time 
enough  to  eat  it." 

"No,  they  cut  us  pretty  short  sometimes  at 
dinner." 

No  incident  of  particular  interest  happens  this 
afternoon.  My  fingers  are  getting  rather  stiff 
and  sore,  working  with  the  hard  and  brittle  rattan 
that  they  give  us.  It  is  discouraging  to  attempt 
good  work  with  such  material,  but  we  do  the 

150 


THURSDAY 

best  we  can.  Stuhlmiller  has  taken  the  matter 
up  with  John,  the  citizen  instructor,  whose  last 
name  I  have  not  yet  learned,  and  with  Captain 
Kane.  They  are  thinking  about  repairing  an  old 
vat  where  the  withes  can  be  properly  heated  and 
softened  by  steam.  That  is  all  right,  but  it  won't 
help  my  fingers  much,  as  I  shall  be  out  of  here 
long  before  it  is  done. 

About  my  going  out  there  is  a  little  joke. 
Every  man  wants  to  know  how  long  I'm  going 
to  stay  here.  I  tell  them  I  don't  see  how  I  can 
remain  beyond  Sunday,  as  there  is  business  I  have 
to  attend  to  in  New  York  City  next  wejek.  Where- 
upon Jack  winks  his  eye  and,  speaking  to  the 
questioner  in  a  loud  whisper,  says,  "Oh,  these 
new  guys  are  always  thinkin'  they  ain't  going  to 
stay  long.  New  trial,  or  pardon  or  something. 
He'll  be  here  for  some  time  yet,  so  don't  you 
worry.  He's  a  little  bug  about  going  right  out, 
you  know."  A  joke  which  has  its  non-humorous 
side;  founded,  as  it  undoubtedly  is,  upon  many  a 
grim  fact.  As  the  Scotch  saying  runs,  "A  true 
joke  is  no  joke.'* 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  talking  again 
of  last  night's  occurrences  upon  which  no  further 
light  has  come,  I  retail  to  Jack  my  visit  from 
Officer  X  this  morning,  and  that  gentleman's  con- 
versation. At  the  conclusion  Jack  looks  over  to 
me  with  scorn  on  his  honest  face  and  blurts  out, 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

"Say!  I  wonder  what  they  take  you  for  any- 
way!" 

"For  a  damn  fool,  evidently;  that  is,  some  of 
them  do,"  is  my  answer.  "But  fortunately,  Jack, 
they  can't  be  all  like  that.  Probably  these  offi- 
cers last  night  were  afraid  that  I  should  hear  the 
disturbance  that  young  fellow  was  making,  and 
felt  that  they  must  hustle  and  get  him  out  of  the 
way  on  that  account.  At  least  that's  how  I  am 
inclined  to  figure  it  out." 

"Well,"  says  Jack,  "some  of  them  seem  awful 
anxious  to  know  all  about  you.  They  come  around 
to  my  cell  every  night  and  ask  after  my  partner's 
health,  and  want  me  to  tell  them  about  everythin' 
you  say  and  do.  But  you  can  bet  I  throw  'em 
off  the  track.  Say,"  he  continues,  "I  just  wish 
you  could  have  seen  one  of  the  screws  last  night 
when  he  asked  me  how  long  you  were  goin'  to  stay 
here,  and  I  told  him  that  from  what  I  heard  you 
say  I  judged  it  wouldn't  be  much  over  two 
months.  Gee !  but  you  should  have  seen  his  face ! 
He  was  just  horrified."  And  Jack  laughs  heartily 
at  the  recollection. 

"Too  bad  to  give  the  poor  fellow  a  jolt  like 
that.  But  after  all,  Jack,  the  keepers  act  a  good 
deal  as  most  any  of  us  would  in  their  places." 

This  kindly  view  is  not  perhaps  altogether  sin- 
cere on  my  part;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  use  my  in- 
fluence to  stir  up  trouble  between  the  keepers  and 
the  prisoners.  Without  standing  up  for  the  keep- 

152 


THURSDAY 

ers  when  they  are  wrong — to  do  that  would  be 
to  forfeit  the  confidence  of  my  companions,  I 
shall  do  my  best  to  make  the  men  feel  that  resist- 
ance to  authority  is  both  foolish  and  useless. 
Prisoners  cannot  expect  to  have  things  to  their 
liking;  but  neither  can  keepers  expect  their  charges 
to  be  blind  to  hypocrisy,  or  to  acquiesce  in  bru- 
tality. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  I  have  a  long 
and  pleasant  talk  with  Jack  Bell.  A  convenient 
post  is  just  at  my  right,  behind  which  Bell  stands, 
screened  from  the  view  of  the  Captain.  I  can 
talk  low  without  turning  my  head,  and  the  officer 
cannot  tell  that  I  am  not  talking  to  Murphy.  As 
everything  else  is  going  on  as  usual  and  the  men 
working  near  pay  no  attention,  not  even  looking 
at  us,  we  are  able  to  enjoy  quite  a  prolonged 
conversation.  Finally,  however,  the  Captain 
seems  to  suspect  something  and  steps  down  from 
his  platform,  but  Bell  glides  off  quietly  and  with 
an  admirable  innocent  air  of  business.  The  Cap- 
tain returns  to  his  seat,  apparently  satisfied. 

After  Bell  has  dropped  away,  I  have  a  long 
and  interesting  discussion  with  my  partner.  For 
some  years  I  have  felt  that  the  principles  of  self- 
government,  as  developed  at  the  Junior  Republic, 
might  probably  be  the  key  to  the  solution  of  the 
prison  problem;  but  as  yet  I  have  not  been  able 

153 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

to  see  clearly  just  how  to  begin  its  application. 
There  have  seemed  to  be  almost  insuperable  diffi- 
culties. In  this  connection  Jack  makes  a  sugges- 
tion which  supplies  a  most  important  link  in  the 
chain. 

In  discussing  the  various  aspects  of  prison  life, 
the  better  and  the  worse,  the  harder  and  the  less 
hard,  we  reach  the  subject  of  the  long  and  dreary 
Sundays.  Jack  agrees  with  all  those  with  whom 
I  have  talked  that  the  long  stretch  in  the  cells, 
from  the  conclusion  of  the  chapel  service,  be- 
tween ten-thirty  and  eleven  o'clock  Sunday  morn- 
ing until  seven  o'clock  Monday  morning — over 
twenty  hours,  is  a  fearful  strain  both  physical 
and  mental  upon  the  prisoners. 

"Well,  Jack,"  I  say,  "from  what  I  have  heard 
Superintendent  Riley  say,  I  feel  sure  he  would 
like  to  give  the  men  some  sort  of  exercise  or 
recreation  on  Sunday  afternoons;  but  how  could 
it  be  managed?  You  can't  ask  the  officers  to  give 
up  their  day  off,  and  you  don't  think  the  men 
could  be  trusted  by  themselves,  do  you?" 

"Why  not?"  says  Jack. 

I  look  at  him,  inquiringly. 

"Why,  look  here,  Tom!"  In  his  eagerness 
Jack  comes  around  to  my  side  of  our  working 
table.  "I  know  this  place  through  and  through.  I 
know  these  men;  I've  studied  'em  for  years.  And 
I  tell  you  that  the  big  majority  of  these  fellows 
in  here  will  be  square  with  you  if  you  give  'em  a 

154 


THURSDAY 

chance.  The  trouble  is,  they  don't  treat  us  on  the 
level.  I  could  tell  you  all  sorts  of  frame-ups  they 
give  us.  Now  if  you  trust  a  man,  he'll  try  and 
do  what's  right;  sure  he  will.  That  is,  most  men 
will.  Of  course,  there  are  a  few  that  won't. 
There  are  some  dirty  curs — degenerates — that 
will  make  trouble,  but  there  ain't  &o  very  many 
of  those. 

"Look  at  that  road  work,"  he  continues. 
"Haven't  the  men  done  fine?  How  many  pris- 
oners have  you  had  out  on  the  roads?  About 
one  hundred  and  thirty.  And  you  ain't  had  a 
single  runaway  yet.  And  if  there  should  be  any 
runaways  you  can  just  bet  we'd  show  'em  what 
we  think  about  it."  * 

"Do  you  really  think,  Jack,  that  the  Superin- 
tendent and  the  Warden  could  trust  you  fellows 
out  in  the  yard  on  Sunday  afternoons  in  sum- 
mer?" 

1  There  had  been  no  runaways  from  the  road  camps 
at  the  time  Jack  was  speaking.  Before  the  camps  were 
broken  up  at  the  end  of  the  season,  and  the  road  work 
was  suspended  for  the  winter,  *  there  were  four.  Two 
were  recovered  and  brought  back;  one  returned  of  his 
own  accord  i  and  one  made  his  getaway.  The  lives  of 
the  two  who  were  brought  back  were  made  miserable 
by  .the  abuse  neaped  upon  them  by  their  fellow  prisoners 
for  having  violated  the  confidence  placed  in  them.  They 
finally  petitioned  the  Warden  to  be  transferred  to  some 
other  prison. 

155 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

"Sure  they  could,"  responds  Jack,  his  face  be- 
ginning to  flush  with  pleasure  at  the  thought. 
"And  there  could  be  a  band  concert,  and  we'd 
have  a  fine  time.  And  it  would  be  a  good  sight 
better  for  us  than  being  locked  in  our  cells  all 
day.  You'd  have  fewer  fights  on  Monday,  I  know 
that." 

"Yes,  it  would  certainly  be  an  improvement 
on  spending  the  afternoon  in  your  cells,"  I  re- 
mark. "Then  in  rainy  weather  you  could  march 
to  the  chapel  and  have  some  sort  of  lecture  or 
debate;  or  Mr.  Kurtz  and  I  would  come  down 
occasionally  and  give  you  a  violin  and  piano  re- 
cital." 

"Sure,"  says  Jack;  adding  with  a  smile,  "the 
boys  would  like  that  best  of  all,  you  know."  (It 
takes  an  Irishman  to  slide  in  a  delicate  compli- 
ment in  passing.) 

"Well,  that  would  all  be  first  rate,"  is  my  in- 
terested comment;  "but  how  about  the  discipline? 
Would  you  let  everybody  out  into  the  yard? 
What  about  those  bad  actors  who  don't  know 
how  to  behave?  Won't  they  quarrel  and  fight 
and  try  to  escape?" 

"But  don't  you  see,  Tom,  that  they  couldn't 
do  that  without  putting  the  whole  thing  on  the 
bum,  and  depriving  the  rest  of  us  of  our  priv- 
ileges? You  needn't  be  afraid  we  couldn't  handle 
those  fellows  all  right.  Or  why  not  let  out  only 
those  men  who  have  a  good  conduct  bar?  That's 


THURSDAY 

it,"  he  continues,  enthusiastically  warming  up  to 
his  subject,  "that's  it,  Tom,  a  Good  Conduct 
League.  And  give  the  privilege  of  Sunday  after- 
noons to  the  members  of  the  league.  I'll  tell 
you,  Tom !  you  know  last  year  we  got  up  an  Anti- 
swearing  League  here  in  this  shop,  and  we  had 
a  penalty  for  every  oath  or  dirty  word.  The 
forfeits  were  paid  with  matches.  You  know 
matches  are  pretty  scarce  here,  don't  you?  Well, 
we  had  a  grand  success  with  that  league.  But 
this  Good  Conduct  League  would  be  a  much  big- 
ger thing.  It  would  be  just  great.  And  go! 
sure  it'll  go." 

"Well,  Jack,  perhaps  you've  hit  the  right  nail 
on  the  head.  We'll  think  it  over,  and  talk  more 
about  it  to-morrow." 

Thus  I  close  the  conversation,  wishing  time 
to  consider  Jack's  suggestion  before  we  continue 
discussing  a  subject  so  big  with  possibilities.  Sun- 
day afternoon  may  be  the  key  to  the  whole  situ- 
ation, and  Jack  may  have  found  the  key  to  the 
question  of  Sunday  afternoon. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  day,  when  we  have  fin- 
ished our  work  and  Jack  is  sweeping  up,  I  first 
read  all  the  newspapers  which  have  floated  in  my 
direction,  and  then  take  a  long  walk  in  stretches 
of  ten  feet  or  so.  Our  talk  has  given  me  much 
to  think  about.  Jack,  after  finishing  his  sweep- 
ing, also  walks,  but  in  a  different  direction;  for 

157 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

there  is  a  strict  rule  that  no  two  convicts  may 
walk  together.  I  manage  at  times  to  stretch  my 
course  a  little,  on  one  side  or  another,  and  whisper 
a  word  or  two  to  some  of  the  other  prisoners. 
My  remarks  are  always  greeted  with  a  ready 
smile  and  a  pleasant  gleam  of  the  eye — even  in 
the  case  of  a  poor  fellow  whose  face  shows  that 
he  is  lacking  in  ordinary  intelligence. 

Closing  time  comes.  "Good  night,  Jack!" 
"Good  night,  Tom!"  (I  got  ahead  of  my  part- 
ner this  time.)  We  form  in  line;  the  old  men  and 
cripples  start  off  first;  the  rest  of  us  march  up  the 
steps  and  along  the  tracks;  then  after  pausing  at 
the  bucket  stands,  swing  up  the  yard  to  the  main 
building;  where  I  seize  my  bread,  clamber  up  the 
iron  steps;  pass  a  whispered  word  or  two  to  some 
of  my  special  friends  as  we  separate  for  the 
night;  take  my  tin  cup  of  fresh  water  which  stands 
on  the  shelf;  stand  for  a  moment  at  the  cell  en- 
trance watching  the  fellows  pass  who  lock  in 
around  the  corner;  and  then  pull  to  my  iron  grated 
door,  locking  myself  in  for  the  night.  I  never 
perform  this  last  operation  and  hear  the  click  of 
the  lever  which  announces  that  I  am  fastened 
securely  in  my  cell,  without  a  feeling  of  resent- 
ment. At  least,  if  a  man  is  to  be  caged  like  this, 
it  ought  to  be  done  by  visible  exercise  of  author- 
ity. They  shouldn't  expect  him  to  lock  his  own 
cage.  Speaking  as  a  convict,  I  call  it  adding 
insult  to  injury. 

158 


THURSDAY 

The  following  is  Jack  Murphy's  description  of  the 
regular  routine:  "On  reaching  his  gallery  each  inmate 
must  go  direct  to  his  cell,  closing  his  iron  door  to  within 
an  inch  of  the  catch,  where  the  lever  falls  in  place.  He 
must  then  stand  with  hands  on  his  iron-grated  door  until 
the  Captain  (who  is  now  on  his  way,  locking  up)  reaches 
his  cell ;  then  the  convict  pulls  in  his  door,  the  lever  falls 
into  its  catch  and  the  Captain  simultaneously  inserts  his 
large  key  into  a  lock  at  the  side,  locking  the  lever  so  that 
it  cannot  be  raised.  He  then  counts  his  company. 

"The  process  of  counting  is  done  in  this  manner:  the 
Captain,  in  passing  each  cell,  takes  hold  of  the  lever  while 
the  inmate  shakes  his  door  vigorously.  In  this  way  the 
Captain  does  two  mental  things  at  one  time,  namely:  he 
assures  himself  that  each  cell  door  is  securely  locked,  and 
that  his  charge  is  behind  that  secured  lock.  This  proce- 
dure is  continued  until  the  last  cell  and  convict  is  counted. 
Then  the  iron  bar  which  runs  the  length  of  the  gallery  is 
let  down  by  a  lever  operated  by  the  Captain  at  the  end 
of  the  gallery.  This  bar  runs  in  front  of  an  iron  rod  or 
arm  attached  outward  from  the  cell  door.  It  is  twenty 
inches  long  by  half  an  inch  square,  and  is  fastened  to  the 
left  side  of  the  cell  door. 

"I  forgot  to  say  that,  after  the  lever,  which  lowers  the 
long  iron  bar,  is  pulled  down,  it  is  also  treated  to  the 
lock-up  system.  A  Yale  lock  is  used  for  this  purpose ;  so 
you  see  the  poor  dumb  iron  is  even  a  victim  to  the  Prison 
System. 

"In  case  of  illness,  after  the  prison  is  closed  for  the 
night,  an  officer  has  to  go  to  the  trouble  of  running  up  to 
the  front  hall  for  the  key  of  the  gallery  on  which  the  con- 
vict is  ill.  This  would  take  him  15  minutes  to  do;  and 

159 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

after  he  got  through  unlocking  all  the  locks  and  pulling 
the  lever  the  convict  might  be  fit  for  an  undertaker  in- 
stead of  a  doctor. 

"A  convict  must  not  loiter  on  his  gallery.  This  is  con- 
sidered by  some  captains  a  serious  offense;  and  as  for 
talking— good  night !  This  last  is  as  bad  as  if  you  were 
charged  with  talking  out  of  your  cell  to  your  next-door 
neighbor.  A  report  for  such  an  offense  would  read  some- 
thing like  this:  'Convict  Brown  is  reported  by  Captain 
Jeff  [or  Mutt]  for  the  following:  Loitering  on  the  gal- 
lery, talking  and  causing  general  disorder.'  Next  morn- 
ing Convict  Brown  would  hit  the  Booby  Hatch  for  three 
or  four  days  and  a  fine  of  $5.00." 

Jack's  statement  is,  of  course,  correct.  I  knew  that  I 
was  taking  a  chance  in  whispering;  but  I  got  away  with 
it,  all  right.  So  do  others,  including  Jack  himself. 

To  understand  fully  the  Prison  System  it  should  be 
added  that  this  long  iron  bar,  which  forms  the  third  lock 
and  about  which  so  much  fuss  is  made,  only  exists  in  the 
basement  and  second  tier  in  the  North  Wing,  and  not  at 
all  in  the  South  Wing.  There  is  no  discrimination  made, 
by  confining  the  more  dangerous  men  in  the  extra-locked 
cells.  But,  gravely,  every  night  and  morning,  that  silly 
extra  bar  is  lowered  and  raised  for  a  small  percentage  of 
the  prisoners — a  ridiculous  waste  of  time  and  energy. 


This  evening  has  been  marked  by  a  visit  from 
the  Chaplain,  who  has  returned  from  Syracuse. 
He  tells  me  that  my  experiment  has  aroused  great 
interest  among  the  clergymen  assembled  at  a  re- 
ligious conference  he  has  been  attending;  that  he 

1 60 


THURSDAY 

has  had  to  answer  countless  questions.  He  also 
tells  me  that  he  is  returning  there  again  this  even- 
ing and  will  telephone  to  the  gentleman  who  was 
proposing  to  employ  his  assistant,  Dickinson,  and 
see  if  work  cannot  possibly  be  found  for  him. 
I  tell  the  Chaplain  of  my  letter,  and  beg  him  to 
add  assurance  of  my  own  belief  in  the  young 
man's  stability  and  intention  to  do  right. 

Later  the  Warden  comes.  He  brings  me,  as 
usual,  a  copy  of  the  Auburn  newspaper,  so  that 
I  must  set  this  down  as  the  third  exception  that 
is  made  in  my  case.  As  a  regular  newcomer  I 
should  not  be  allowed  a  newspaper. 

I  ask  the  Warden  about  last  night's  disturb- 
ance. He  has  inquired  into  it,  he  says,  and  found 
it  was  only  a  case  of  a  troublesome  fellow,  sent 
up  from  Sing  Sing  recently,  who  was  making  some 
little  disturbance  in  the  gallery.  After  they  ad- 
monished him  he  wouldn't  stop,  so  they  had  to 
take  him  down  to  the  jail.  When  the  officer  en- 
tered his  cell,  he  threw  his  bucket  at  the  officer 
and  there  was  a  little  row.  "I'm  inclined  to 
think,"  adds  the  Warden,  "that  he  may  be  a  little 
bit  crazy,  and  I'm  going  to  look  into  it." 

"I  suppose  that  is  the  official  version,"  I  re- 
mark to  the  Warden.  "Well,  I  certainly  hope 
you  will  look  further  into  it;  for,  speaking  frankly, 
I  think  they  are  trying  to  slip  one  over  on  you.  If 
my  information  is  correct,  and  I  believe  it  is,  the 
case  is  rather  different  from  what  you  have  told 

161 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

me;  and  the  treatment  given  the  young  fellow 
was  inexcusably  brutal." 

I  put  the  matter  rather  mildly  to  the  Warden, 
for  I  don't  want  him  to  think  that  I  am  losing 
my  balance  and  taking  everything  that  is  said  to 
me  by  all  my  fellow-prisoners  as  gospel  truth. 
To  believe  everything  they  say  would  doubtless 
be  as  stupid  as  to  believe  nothing. 

The  Warden  and  I  again  discuss  the  desira- 
bility of  my  working  in  one  of  the  other  shops 
during  the  remaining  time  here;  but  after  full 
consideration  we  both  feel  that  more  is  to  be 
gained  by  staying  where  I  am.  There  is  only 
a  day  and  a  half  left. 

"You  still  feel,  then,  as  if  you  wanted  to  try 
the  jail?"  asks  the  Warden. 

"Yes,  more  so  than  ever,"  I  answer,  "for  I 
must  find  out  why  the  prisoners  all  speak  of  it 
with  such  horror.  When  you  showed  me  the  place 
last  June,  I  thought  it  a  very  uncomfortable  hole, 
and  it  was  not  pleasant  to  think  about  afterward. 
But  there  must  be  some  such  place  to  put  men 
who  defy  all  authority;  and  it  didn't  strike  me  as 
so  very  terrible.  These  fellows  all  speak  of  it 
with  bated  breath  and  a  queer  look  in  the  eyes, 
as  though  it  held  some  ghastly  recollection.  What 
can  it  be?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  answers  the  Warden, 

"Well,  neither  do  I,  and  I  want  to  find  out. 
162 


THURSDAY 

Of  course,"  I  add,  "I'm  not  going  to  be  foolish 
about  the  thing.  If  I  find  I  don't  feel  well  enough 
for  any  reason,  when  Saturday  comes,  I  shall  just 
cut  it  out.  But  if  my  physical  condition  continues 
as  good  as  it  is  now,  I  mean  to  try  it." 

"All  right,"  says  the  Warden.  "I  wanted  to 
know,  so  that  I  can  give  orders  to  have  one  of 
those  jail  suits  washed.  There  is  no  need  of 
your  running  any  unnecessary  risk  in  the  matter, 
and  those  dirty  old  clothes  I  don't  like." 

This  is  my  first  knowledge  of  the  custom  of 
giving  the  prisoners  who  are  sent  to  the  punish- 
ment cells  clothes  especially  reserved  for  the  jail; 
and  my  thoughts  travel  at  once  to  the  filthy  and 
disreputable  garments  I  had  seen  on  a  prisoner 
the  Warden  had  once  interviewed  there  in  my 
presence. 

"Well,  I  shall  appreciate  it  if  I  can  have  a 
clean  suit,"  I  said.  "There's  no  reason,  I  sup- 
pose, why  I  should  not  accept  that  exception." 

So  it  is  arranged.  The  Warden's  visit  comes 
to  an  end,  and  another  day  of  my  voluntary  exile 
from  society  is  closed. 

Now  for  another  long  and  restless  night. 

I  shall  not  mind  so  much  the  periods  of  wake- 
fulness  to-night.  Jack  Murphy's  Good  Conduct 
League  will  give  me  plenty  of  food  for  thought. 
I  believe  he  has  struck  the  path  for  which  I  have 
been  groping. 

163 


FRIDAY 
In  my  cell,  Friday  evening,  October  3. 


THIS  morning  breaks  gray  and  cloudy  again. 
I  wake  early  and  hear  the  night  officer, 
some  time  before  six  o'clock,  come  and 
wake  my  neighbor  in  the  next  cell.  He  and  I 
tap  each  other  "Good  night"  regularly  now;  and 
this  morning  I  send  through  the  stone  wall  a 
greeting  for  the  day.  He  returns  my  message; 
and  when  the  keeper  comes  again  at  six  o'clock, 
this  time  to  open  his  cell,  he  waits,  apparently, 
until  that  officer's  back  is  turned  and  then,  put- 
ting his  head  only  just  so  far  past  the  opening  of 
my  cell  that  his  voice  can  reach  me,  utters  a 
hoarse  and  hasty  "Good  morning"  and  vanishes. 
This  puts  me  in  thorough  good  humor,  and  as 
I  hear  the  factory  bells  and  whistles  greet  the 
new  morn  I  turn  over  to  take  just  one  final  nap 
before  beginning  my  own  preparations  for  the 

164 


FRIDAY 

day's  work,  wondering  what  new  turn  my  adven- 
ture will  take  before  night  again  falls. 

Is  it  imagination,  or  is  there  more  friendliness 
than  usual  in  the  nods  and  smiles  which  greet 
me  from  the  faces  upturned  in  the  corridor  be- 
low, as  I  traverse  the  gallery  with  my  heavy 
bucket?  It  was  extensively  questioned  among  the 
convicts,  in  advance  of  my  coming,  whether  I 
would  do  this  particular  part  of  the  prison  duty. 
As  one  of  them  told  me,  it  was  thought  I  would 
find  some  way  to  escape  it;  and  the  fact  that  I 
did  not  try  to  escape  it,  but  assumed  it  cheerfully 
and  as  a  matter  of  course,  has  much  impressed 
them.  As  Joe  put  it  to  me  three  days  ago,  it 
was  proof  that  I  "meant  business,"  and  took  the 
thing  seriously,  meaning  to  do  exactly  what  I 
said — live  the  actual  life  of  a  convict  up  to  the 
possible  limit. 

Bucket  duty  performed  and  while  I  wait  in  my 
cell  for  the  breakfast  hour,  Dickinson  comes  run- 
ning to  my  door.  The  good  fellow  has  heard 
from  the  Chaplain  that  his  job  is  ready  for  him 
and  he  can  go  out  to-morrow.  "And  I  can  never 
be  grateful  enough  to  you,  sir,"  he  says  with  much 
feeling.  "I  shall  never  forget  what  you  and  the 
Chaplain  have  done  for  me;  and  I  assure  you 
you  will  never  regret  it,  for  I  intend  to  go  straight 
and  show  you  that  I  mean  every  word  I  say." 

"I'm  sure  you  do;  and  I'm  sure  you  will  go 
straight,"  is  my  comment.  "But  how  about  your 

165 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

clothes?  Have  you  anything  but  the  prison  suit 
you  get  on  your  discharge?" 

"No,  nothing." 

"Well,  but  you  can't  go  to  work  outside  in 
those.  People  will  spot  you  as  an  ex-con  at  once. 
Don't  you  want  me  to  fix  it  so  that  you  can  get 
a  decent  suit?" 

"Oh,  if  you  only  would!"  is  his  heartfelt  ex- 
clamation. "And,  say,  Mr.  Osborne — pardon 
me — I  mean  Mr.  Brown,  if  you'll  please  consider 
them  not  as  a  gift,  if  you'll  let  me  have  the  money 
as  a  loan,  I  shall  be  greatly  obliged.  And  I'll 
pay  it  back  just  as  soon  as  I  possibly  can." 

So  we  make  arrangements  by  which  he  can  be 
aided  in  this  way,  and  I  sit  down  to  write  a  note 
relative  to  the  matter,  but  am  interrupted  by 
breakfast. 

As  we  march  to  breakfast  I  try  my  hand,  or 
rather  my  throat,  at  motionless  conversation. 
Wishing  to  get  word  to  one  of  the  prisoners  to 
procure  a  certain  definite  piece  of  information 
about  the  Wednesday  evening  incident,  I  seize 
upon  a  favorable  moment  to  communicate  with 
Roger  Landry,  who  is  marching  ahead  of  me. 
In  the  faintest  whisper  and  without  moving  my 
lips,  I  say:  "Cun  to  ny  cell  a'ter  dreak'ast." 
The  ghost  of  a  nod  shows  that  he  has  heard  and 
understood,  and  so  we  march  in  to  our  morning 
meal. 

1 66 


FRIDAY 

This  time  it  is  again  hash,  with  the  usual  ac- 
companiments— the  rather  sour  bread  and  nasty 
coffee.  (Whatever  else  changes,  the  bootleg  re- 
mains the  same.)  The  hash  is  better  than  that 
which  we  had  for  breakfast  on — Wednesday,  was 
it?  I  place  aside  only  one  piece  of  bone  and  one 
of  gristle. 

During  the  meal  I  look  around  more  closely 
than  I  have  previously  done  at  the  officers  within 
my  range  of  vision.  There  is  one  who  wears  a 
flannel  shirt,  and  is  so  unshaven  that  he  looks 
like  a  tramp.  I'm  glad  I'm  not  under  that  Cap- 
tain. At  first  I  thought  he  was  some  one  who 
had  been  drafted  temporarily  for  duty,  but  I  find 
he  is  one  of  the  regular  officers. 

Here  is  an  interesting  psychological  fact:  that 
much  as  a  man  dislikes  being  treated  as  a  slave, 
yet  if  he  is  to  be  so  treated  he  wants  his  master 
to  be  the  most  efficient  and  best-looking  master 
of  the  lot.  I  find  myself  comparing  our  Captain 
with  this  untidy-looking  person  in  the  flannel 
shirt,  and  having  a  distinct  feeling  of  pride  in 
the  good  looks  and  clean-cut  appearance  of  our 
master.  I  know  that  if  I  were  serving  under 
that  flannel-shirted  and  collarless  officer  I  should 
have  very  little  respect  for  myself  and  none  for 
him.  I  don't  know  who  he  is,  and  he  may  be 
one  'of  the  kindest  and  best  tempered  of  men; 
but  I  would  be  willing  to  wager  that  the  prison- 
ers under  his  charge  are  difficult  to  handle.  It 

167 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

does  not  speak  well  for  the  general  discipline  of 
the  prison  that  such  a  breach  of  official  decorum 
should  be  permitted.  The  officer's  cap  on  top  of 
the  unshaven  face  and  the  flannel  shirt  looks 
ridiculously  out  of  place. 

Soon  after  our  return  to  the  cells  comes  Landry, 
having  understood  perfectly  my  first  attempt  at 
convict  conversation.  I  give  him  my  message  and 
he  engages  to  see  that  it  is  delivered.  As  we  are 
talking,  another  of  the  trusties  passes  by;  and,  be- 
fore I  can  see  who  it  is,  a  large  sheet  of  paper  is 
thrust  under  the  door  and  the  man  is  gone.  I 
turn  the  paper  over  and  on  the  other  side  is  a 
most  elaborate  pencil  sketch  of  myself,  copied 
with  extraordinary  pains,  apparently  from  some 
newspaper  cut,  and  with  it  a  slip  of  paper  with 
this  inscription:  "Auburn  Prison,  September  30, 
1913.  To  Hon.  Thomas  M.  Osborne,  Auburn, 
N.  Y.  As  a  memento  of  the  days  spent  in  our 
midst  and  sacrificed  in  our  behalf.  Auburn  No. 


Arrived  at  the  basket-shop  and  soon  after  Jack 
and  I  have  started  working,  I  have  a  bad  attack 
of  nausea.  I  was  very  thirsty  at  breakfast  time 
and  inadvertently  drank  some  bootleg.  That 
must  be  the  reason.  No  human  stomach,  with- 
out practice,  can  stand  that  stuff.  I  keep  on 
working,  hoping  the  feeling  will  wear  off,  but  it 
does  not.  Then  I  walk  up  and  down  energetically 

168 


FRIDAY 

while  we  are  waiting  for  a  new  stock  of  rattan, 
but  that  has  no  better  effect.  Jack  is  much  con- 
cerned and  insists  upon  appealing  to  the  Captain, 
who  promptly  sends  to  the  hospital  for  medicine. 
In  the  meantime  I  go  to  the  large  door  in  the 
rear  of  the  shop  with  a  hope  of  relief  from  the 
cause  of  disturbance,  but  am  only  partially  suc- 
cessful. A  young  prisoner  who  is  washing  win- 
dows asks  me  if  I  would  not  like  some  hot  water. 
Indeed  I  would,  it  is  the  very  thing  I  want.  So 
he  goes  and  gets  it.  He  is  a  good-looking  lad, 
a  Greek,  with  the  appealing  eyes  I  have  noticed 
in  some  of  the  Italian  prisoners.  I  drink  large 
quantities  of  hot  water  and  rest  awhile  before 
continuing  my  work.  Jack  and  all  the  other  men 
about  me  are  most  kind  and  solicitous  for  my 
comfort,  and  I  have  never  seen  a  more  ready  and 
friendly  expression  of  sympathy.  It  is  worth 
being  ill  to  experience  it. 

The  young  Greek  keeps  my  jar  of  hot  water 
filled  as  fast  as  I  empty  it,  and  even  before  the 
medicine  arrives  from  the  hospital  I  already  feel 
better.  I  take  a  dose,  however,  and  go  to  work 
again.  By  the  time  the  morning  work  hours  are 
over  I  am  in  shape  to  march  back  to  the  north 
wing,  although  for  a  moment  at  the  bucket  stands 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  about  to  keel  over. 

In  my  cell  I  slump  into  the  chair.  (I  don't 
think  I  have  mentioned  that  the  large  chair  which 
gave  so  much  trouble  on  Tuesday  night  was  re- 

169 


placed  the  next  day  by  one  of  more  manageable 
proportions.)  I  rest  my  head  against  the  mat- 
tress, as  it  hangs  over  the  bed,  and  feel  ill  for  a 
few  moments.  But  I  take  another  dose  of  the 
Doctor's  medicine  and  by  the  time  the  march  to 
dinner  comes  I  feel  better;  so  much  better  that, 
carefully  avoiding  the  bootleg,  I  manage  to  make 
a  fairly  good  meal. 

The  menu  to-day  consists  of  very  excellent  hot 
soup,  cold  salmon,  and  pickles.  I  avoid  the  sal- 
mon and  pickles,  passing  them  along  to  another 
man,  and  contenting  myself  with  the  soup  and 
sour  bread.  This  passing  to  others  of  what  one 
does  not  want  seems  to  be  very  general.  As  it 
has  to  be  done  without  visible  conversation  it  is 
a  little  difficult  for  the  newcomer  always  to  know 
what  is  expected  of  him,  and  I'm  afraid  I  have 
not  always  disposed  of  my  meal  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage. I  notice  that  Landry  eats  sparingly. 
As  he  has  what  might  be  called  a  semi-official 
position,  I  suspect  that  he  reserves  some  of  his 
gastronomic  energies  for  the  back  pantry. 

Again  in  my  cell  I  address  myself  to  sleep; 
and  succeed  in  getting  a  brief  nap,  which  is  broken 
by  my  good  friend  Joe,  who  comes  to  make  anx- 
ious inquiries  after  my  health.  He  has  heard 
that  I  am  sick  and  is  much  concerned.  I  suppose 
he  has  learned  it  in  the  mysterious  way  so  much 
news  travels — by  prison  wireless. 

170 


FRIDAY 

I  relieve  Joe's  anxiety;  and  then  comes  Landry 
with  whom  I  have  a  pleasant  talk  on  things  in  gen- 
eral, ending  with  religion.  We  are  interrupted  by 
the  arrival  of  Captain  Martin;  and  I  am  con- 
siderably amused  at  the  deft  way  in  which  Landry 
has  effaced  himself  and  vanished  before  the  offi- 
cer regains  his  breath  after  climbing  the  stairs. 
Captain  Martin  comes  from  the  Doctor  to  know 
whether  I  should  like  some  milk. 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I  think  not  now."  I  am  on 
the  point  of  adding  that  it  would  be  extremely 
welcome  this  evening — well  or  ill;  but  the  Cap- 
tain does  not  offer  it,  and  I  do  not  quite  like  to 
ask  for  it.  So  I  vouchsafe  the  information  that 
I'm  feeling  better  now  and  think  I  shall  be  all 
right  in  a  very  short  while. 

The  Captain  takes  his  departure;  and  my  next 
caller  is  Dickinson,  who  is  still  radiant  over  the 
idea  of  leaving  to-morrow.  I  give  him  the  note 
I  have  written,  which  will  enable  him  to  get  his 
clothes;  a,nd,  when  he  tells  me  that  owing  to  the 
late  fine  weather  the  authorities  have  refused  to 
give  him  an  overcoat,  I  add  that  item  to  his 
list. 

When  the  time  comes  to  go  back  to  work  I 
am  feeling  refreshed  by  my  brief  nap  and  the 
hour's  rest  after  dinner.  So  I  fall  into  line  as 
usual  with  the  company — I  wonder  what  would 
happen  if  I  stayed  behind  in  my  cell — and  we 

171 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

march  down  the  yard  as  usual.  When  I  ar- 
rive at  the  shop,  Jack  is  at  my  side  in  an 
instant. 

"How  are  you  feeling,  Tom?"  he  inquires,  anx- 
iously. 

I  tell  him  that  I  am  doing  fairly  well,  and  we 
set  to  work.  In  a  very  short  time,  however,  the 
feeling  of  nausea  returns ;  and  Jack  then  gives  me 
a  remedy  of  his  own  which  he  says  is  often  taken 
in  the  prison,  where  indigestion  is  only  too  com- 
mon. It  consists  of  bicarbonate  of  soda  in  vine- 
gar and  water.  To  show  me  that  it  is  quite  safe 
Jack  takes  a  dose  himself,  I  follow  suit,  and  the 
result  is  satisfactory  in  both  cases.  I  am  also 
provided  with  plenty  of  hot  water  by  my  young 
Greek  friend,  who  is  apparently  ready  to  take 
any  amount  of  trouble  for  me. 

While  I  am  trying  to  do  my  fair  share  of  the 
basket-making  this  afternoon  one  of  my  shop- 
mates  passes  behind  me  and  then  pauses  in  the 
shadow  of  the  post.  "Say,  Brown,"  he  says, 
"you  don't  seem  to  realize  that  you  are  violating 
one  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  this  institution, 
you're  working  too  hard,"  and  he  goes  off  chuck- 
ling. I  don't  know  that  I  am  working  too  hard, 
but  I  do  know  that  there  seems  to  be  about  as 
little  incentive  to  do  a  good,  honest  day's  work 
as  could  well  be  devised.  At  a  cent  and  a  half  a 
day  the  financial  result  is  farcical,  and  my  surprise 
is  great  that  the  state  gets  as  good  work  as  it 

172 


FRIDAY 

does.  Certainly  it  is  far  better  than  the  state 
deserves.  Looking  about  the  shop  I  see  a  great 
many  men  who  are  doing  their  allotted  tasks 
faithfully  and  well.  Yet  they  have  absolutely 
nothing  to  gain  by  it  except  the  satisfaction  of 
work  well  done. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  Jack  and  I 
resume  our  discussion  about  Sunday  afternoons 
and  the  Good  Conduct  League.  Further  consid- 
eration has  rendered  both  of  us  enthusiastic  over 
the  plan. 

"Why,  I  know  it  would  work,  Tom,"  is  Jack's 
decided  statement.  "The  big  majority  of  fellows 
in  this  prison  the  Warden  don't  have  any  trouble 
with.  Well,  just  keep  the  rest  of  'em  out  of  the 
League.  There's  no  reason  why  the  men  who  are 
tryin'  to  make  good  should  suffer  because  those 
miserable  degenerates  won't  stand  for  what's 
right." 

"Then  you  think  that  if  the  right  men  were 
trusted  they  could  take  care  of  the  bad  ones?" 
I  ask. 

"Sure!"  replies  my  enthusiastic  partner. 

"Well,  now  let's  see  about  this  thing,"  I  say, 
becoming  more  and  more  interested  as  the  great 
possibilities  of  the  plan  present  themselves  to  my 
mind.  "Suppose  it  is  Sunday  afternoon  and 
Superintendent  Riley  has  given  permission  to  use 
the  yard.  You  can't  have  the  officers  coming 

173 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

back  and  spoiling  their  day  off.  How  would  you 
manage?" 

"Why,  just  let  the  League  fellows  manage 
themselves,"  is  Jack's  answer. 

"Yes,  but  how?"  I  persist.  "You'd  probably 
have  an  occasional  fight  of  some  sort,  and  you'd 
have  to  have  some  means  of  enforcing  discipline. 
Could  each  company  have  a  convict  officer,  a 
lieutenant  to  assist  the  regular  captain?" 

Jack  looks  grave.  "That  would  be  too  much 
like  Elmira,"  he  says.  "I'm  afraid  the  fellows 
wouldn't  fall  for  it.  You  know  they  just  hate 
those  Elmira  officers;  they're  nothing  but  stool- 
pigeons." 

Right  here  is  where  my  Junior  Republic  experi- 
ence comes  to  our  aid. 

"Yes,"  I  say,  "but  we  wouldn't  have  any  El- 
mira stool-pigeons.  Down  there  the  inmate  offi- 
cers are  appointed  by  the  prison  authorities,  aren't 
they?  Well,  here  we'd  have  the  members  of  the 
League  elect  their  own  officers." 

Jack  stares  at  me  a  moment,  and  then  his  quick 
mind  grasps  the  point.  "That's  it,  that's  it,"  he 
assents,  eagerly,  "we've  got  it  now.  Of  course 
if  the  men  elect  their  own  officers  they  won't  be 
stool-pigeons." 

"Certainly  not,  they  can't  be,"  I  rejoin,  feeling 
now  on  familiar  and  secure  ground,  "for  if  the 
men  elect  them,  they  will  be  representatives  of 
the  men  and  bound  to  feel  themselves  responsible 

174 


FRIDAY 

to  the  men.  They  may  turn  out  to  be  poor  offi- 
cers— dictatorial,  or  weak,  or  incompetent — but 
they  will  not  be  stool-pigeons.  Then  you  can 
guard  against  it  still  further  by  providing  that 
whenever  the  men  of  a  company  lose  faith  in 
their  officer  he  can  be  recalled  and  a  new  one 
elected." 

As  we  discuss  the  matter  new  possibilities  open 
up.  Some  sort  of  governing  body  of  the  League 
which  shall  plan  ahead  for  its  work,  so  that  every 
Sunday  something  interesting  may  be  presented. 
Perhaps  the  men  might  get  up  an  entertainment 
themselves;  or,  as  I  suggest,  possibly  athletic 
sports  on  a  holiday  in  the  yard.  This  last  makes 
Jack  fairly  gasp. 

"Gee!  I  guess  that  we'd  have  everybody 
wantin'  to  join  the  League,  all  right,"  is  his 
comment. 

"And  you  really  think  the  men  would  take  an 
interest,  and  make  such  a  thing  go?"  is  my  final 
question. 

"Go!"  says  Jack.  "The  only  trouble  will  be 
if  we  ever  had  a  fight  in  the  yard  everybody'd 
want  to  stop  it  to  show  that  they  didn't  stand 
for  it.  And  I'm  afraid  that  fourteen  hundred 
men  would  come  pretty  near  to  putting  the  two 
fighters  out  of  business." 

"Well,  then,  let  us  think  over  this  matter  fully 
and  carefully,  Jack,  and  later  on  I'll  take  it  up 
with  you  and  see  what  we  can  work  out  of  it.  I 

175 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

think  you've  got  hold  of  the  right  end  and  struck 
a  big  thing." 

The  next  time  Stuhlmiller  comes  to  our  table  I 
say,  "Harley,  listen  to  this,"  and  give  him  a  rough 
outline  of  what  Jack  and  I  have  been  discussing. 
Stuhlmiller  listens  with  smiling  attention  and  gives 
the  plan  warm  approval.  This  is  encouraging. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  we  open  up  the  sub- 
ject to  Blackie  Laflam,  he  takes  a  different  view. 
He  is  quite  ready  to  accept  the  blessings  of  Sun- 
day afternoons  in  the  yard  or  chapel;  but  he  balks 
at  the  idea  of  inmate  lieutenants. 

"Cut  it  out,"  is  his  comment.  "I  wouldn't  be 
bossed  by  no  convict.  Ain't  the  keeper  enough? 
What's  he  paid  for?  No  Elmira  stool-pigeons 
for  mine!" 

So  there  we  have  the  two  views  very  well  out- 
lined, and  the  two  currents  of  public  opinion  fairly 
contrasted.  Harley  sees  the  point  at  once,  is 
ready  to  join  in  and  accept  the  responsibilities 
which  must  go  along  with  the  privileges;  Blackie 
has  to  overcome  his  prejudices  and  be  convinced 
of  the  benefit  which  may  accrue  to  him  person- 
ally. We  shall  have  to  take  into  account  both 
groups  of  which  these  two  men  are  types.1 

1  Both  Stuhlmiller  and  Laflam  were  elected  on  the 
original  committee  which  prepared  the  organization  of 
the  Mutual  Welfare  League,  and  have  worked  en- 
thusiastically for  its  success. 

176 


FRIDAY 

Except  for  these  discussions  this  last  afternoon 
passes  without  any  new  excitement  I  find  myself 
frequently  wondering  about  to-morrow.  In  my 
present  condition  it  would  be  very  foolish  to  at- 
tempt the  jail.  Fortunately  I  am  feeling  better 
every  moment,  even  if  I  am  "working  too  hard" ; 
perhaps  because  of  doing  so.  By  the  time  the 
order  comes  to  fall  in  at  the  end  of  the  after- 
noon I  am  quite  myself  again — thanks  to  Jack's 
remedy,  the  Doctor's  medicine,  and  the  Greek 
boy's  hot  water,  to  say  nothing  of  the  League  dis- 
cussion. 

One  incident  of  the  afternoon  touches  me  ex- 
tremely. Working  not  far  from  us  is  a  young 
lad  from  Brooklyn.  He  can't  be  more  than 
eighteen  or  nineteen  years  of  age — a  good-looking 
youth,  having  no  special  friends  apparently  and 
speaking  but  little  to  any  one.  Every  moment 
when  he  is  not  working  he  is  either  vigorously 
walking,  or  poring  over  some  book,  a  lurid  dime 
novel  I  should  judge  from  its  appearance.  I 
have  tried  to  make  friends  with  him,  but  without 
much  success.  My  advances  are  received  pleas- 
antly enough,  but  awaken  apparently  very  little 
response.  To  be  sure  we  do  not  have  a  chance 
to  enjoy  much  real  conversation,  but  his  face  does 
not  light  up  as  do  those  of  most  of  the  prisoners 
with  whom  I  get  the  chance  to  exchange  even  a 
word  or  two. 

This  afternoon,  while  I  am  working  away  at 
177 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

the  bench,  I  suddenly  see  a  hand  outstretched  in 
front  of  me,  and  in  its  palm  a  small  bunch  of 
about  two  dozen  green,  dyspeptic-looking  grapes. 
A  more  forlorn  attempt  at  fruit  I  have  never 
seen. 

I  turn,  and  it  is  my  young  friend  of  the 
dime  novel.  The  lad  has  somehow  or  other  come 
into  possession  of  these  sickly  grapes,  and  is  mak- 
ing to  me  the  best  offering  he  can.  I  dare  say  it 
sounds  like  a  very  commonplace  occurrence,  but 
in  reality  there  is  something  infinitely  pathetic  in 
this  poor  imprisoned  boy's  attempt  to  express 
friendliness.  I  wish  I  could  give  him  in  return 
some  of  the  real  fruit  that  is  at  this  moment  wast- 
ing on  the  vines  at  home.  As  it  is,  I  can  only 
tell  him  that  I  do  not  dare  eat  fruit  while  my 
stomach  is  out  of  order,  but  that  I  appreciate  his 
kindness  none  the  less.  So  he  goes  back  to  his 
exercise;  and  I  am  left  wondering  how  in  the 
world — or  rather,  how  away  from  the  world — 
did  the  boy  come  by  those  grapes.1 

Thus  I  close  my  last  full  day's  work  in  the 
shop.  Where  shall  I  be  at  this  time  to-morrow, 
I  wonder?  It  occurs  to  me  that  this  was  the 

1  The  mystery  has  been  explained  by  one  of  my  fellow- 
prisoners.  "On  the  roof  of  the  bucket-house  and  on  the 
walls  are  some  grape  vines  from  which  the  sickly  looking 
grapes  are  picked  by  the  bucket-house  man  and  given  to 
friends.  I  tried  them,  but  they  were  too  much  for  me, 
and  it's  lucky  you  did  not  tackle  them." 

I78 


FRIDAY 

same  question  I  was  asking  myself  only  five  nights 
ago,  before  I  came  to  prison. 

We  march  back  up  the  yard  without  incident; 
and  in  due  time  I  regain  my  cell,  after  getting 
my  bread  for  supper. 

Here  Dickinson  comes  again,  to  express  his 
gratitude  and  have  me  share  in  his  joy  at  deliver- 
ance. I  say,  "And  now  I  suppose  it's  good- 
bye." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  replies;  "I  shall  come  and  see 
you  again  to-morrow  morning  before  I  go."  Then 
he  tells  me  all  his  plans,  and  how  he  expects  to 
rejoin  his  wife  and  children.  His  joy  is  pathetic 
when  one  reflects  upon  the  individual  sorrows 
and  disappointments  that  must  await  him,  with 
always  in  the  background  the  horrible  dread  of 
having  his  past  discovered.  Even  his  children  do 
not  know  the  truth;  they  think  their  father  has 
only  been  away  on  a  long  journey.  I  give  him 
my  very  best  wishes  and  plenty  of  good  advice, 
and  again  he  assures  me  of  his  undying  gratitude. 
It  seems  to  be  very  easy  to  make  these  poor  fel- 
lows grateful.  Just  a  little  human  feeling,  that 
is  all  that  is  necessary. 

This  evening,  having  little  appetite  and  bread 
and  water  not  seeming  quite  adequate  to  tempt 
what  little  there  is,  I  turn  to  Landry's  apples 
which  have  been  awaiting  just  such  an  occasion. 
I  eat  one;  and  it  goes  to  just  the  right  spot.  I 

179 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

have  seldom  tasted  anything  more  delicious.  On 
the  whole,  it  appears  well  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  a  gallery  man;  and  I  can  see  that  it  would 
be  especially  so  if  he  is  the  captain's  trusty.  I 
can  imagine  that  then  he  might  be  of  great  ser- 
vice; or  might,  on  the  other  hand,  work  one  a 
deal  of  mischief  if  he  wanted  to.  The  trusty 
must  have  it  in  his  power  very  often  to  prejudice 
the  captain  for  or  against  certain  prisoners  by 
what  he  tells;  and  the  captain  would  have  no 
practicable  means  of  verifying  the  trusty's  state- 
ments. A  system  of  petty  and  very  exasperating 
tyranny  would  thus  grow  up.  It  is  bad  enough 
to  be  tyrannized  over  by  an  officer,  but  to  be 
tyrannized  over  by  an  officer's  stool-pigeon  must 
be  almost  unendurable.  While  I  have  seen  no 
examples  myself,  I  imagine  from  what  I  have 
heard  that  this  state  of  things  is  not  unknown,  as 
of  course  it  is  inevitable.  One  has  only  to  recall 
one's  own  school  days  to  know  that. 

After  I  have  finished  my  supper  of  apples, 
bread  and  water,  one  of  the  trusties  comes  to  the 
front  of  the  cell,  and  I  have  a  long  talk  with  him. 
He  grows  confidential,  and  tells  me  his  story.  It 
is  a  mournful  but  perfectly  natural  one.  An  active 
boy,  inclined  to  wildness;  bad  companions;  a 
father  whose  business  called  him  from  home;  a 
mother  unable  to  cope  with  her  wilful  son;  a  life 
of  dissipation;  a  picnic  and  drinking;  a  row  with 

1 80 


FRIDAY 

some  other  toughs;  a  handy  pistol  and  an  un- 
premeditated murder.  Then  comes  the  punish- 
ment which  falls  upon  him,  although  others  are 
equally  to  blame. 

What  surprises  me  about  this,  like  other  tales 
that  have  reached  me,  is  the  frank  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  sin.  There  is  usually  an  admission 
that  punishment  was  deserved,  occasionally  an 
admission  that  on  the  whole  prison  has  been  use- 
ful— "I've  learned  my  lesson";  but  along  with 
any  such  acknowledgment,  an  expression  of  in- 
tense resentment  at  unintelligent  treatment  and 
unnecessary  brutality. 

The  tales  of  this  brutality  are  almost  beyond 
belief.  They  do  not  come  out  directly,  put  for- 
ward to  arouse  sympathy;  very  far  from  that. 
They  crop  out  incidentally  in  the  course  of  con- 
versation and  are  only  related  when  I  ply  the 
prisoner  with  questions.  One  man  tells  of  being 
sent  to  a  dark  cell  because  he  would  not  reveal  to 
the  warden  something  he  did  not  know,  and 
therefore  could  not  reveal,  about  one  of  his  fel- 
low prisoners. 

"Didn't  you  really  know,  or  wouldn't  you  be  a 
stool-pigeon?"  is  my  natural  question. 

"I  really  didn't  know,"  replies  the  trusty. 

But  the  warden  chose  to  think  that  the  poor 
fellow  did  know,  and  sent  him  to  the  dark  cell 
on  bread  and  water  for  eight  days.  Then  he 
was  brought  up,  more  dead  than  alive,  given  a 

181 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

single  meal,  and  sent  back  to  the  dark  cell  for 
twelve  days  more. 

Twenty  days  in  darkness — on  bread  and  water 
— for  withholding  information  which  he  did  not 
possess. 

(It  should  be  added  that  this  did  not  happen 
under  any  warden  now  holding  office.) 

What  are  men  made  of  who  can  treat  human 
beings  like  that?  I  supposed  that  the  Middle 
Ages  were  safely  passed;  but  here  is  the  medi- 
eval idea  of  the  torture  chamber  to  extract  in- 
formation right  over  again. 

Then  there  is  that  other  story  of  the  man  who 
committed  suicide  in  the  jail.  This  is  what  is 
told  to  me : 

A  number  of  years  ago  a  poor  fellow  was 
sent  here.  His  first  night  in  prison  was  so  terrible 
a  nervous  strain  upon  him,  as  it  apparently  is  to 
all  prisoners,  that  he  could  not  keep  from  hysteri- 
cal crying.  The  officer  on  guard  ordered  him  to 
stop,  but  he  could  not  control  himself.  So  the 
officer  chalked  him  in. 

The  next  day  he  was  reported  for  punishment 
and  sent  down  to  the  jail,  although  he  protested 
that  it  would  kill  him.  That  night  he  strangled 
himself  with  his  handkerchief. 

It  is  the  jail  which,  apparently,  either  sends  a 
man  bughouse,  or  which  lays  such  a  foundation 
that  he  becomes  so  later  on.  But  even  when  the 
time  spent  in  the  dark  cell  is  short,  as  in  Jack 

182 


FRIDAY 

Murphy's  case,  who  spent  only  eight  hours  there, 
there  seems  to  be  left  an  impression  of  horror — 
for  which  I  find  it  difficult  to  account.  I  certainly 
cannot  make  a  full  test  of  prison  life  without 
having  a  jail  experience.  For  me  surely  it  can 
hold  no  such  horror  as  for  these  poor  fellows 
who  are  kept  so  many  days  on  starvation  diet. 
Yes,  if  I  do  not  feel  physically  unfit  to-morrow  I 
must  undertake  the  experience. 

Soon  after  eight  o'clock  the  Warden  and  Grant 
appear  at  my  cell  door.  My  ears  are  becoming 
sharper,  I  think.  I  can  tell  now  the  moment 
the  door  opens  into  the  corridor  below  whether 
or  not  it  is  the  Warden  that  is  coming.  Of  course 
he  arrives  about  the  same  time  every  evening,  but 
also  about  this  time  the  door  is  opening  and  clos- 
ing a  number  of  times.  I  recognize  also  the 
Warden's  footfalls  on  the  stone  pavement  below. 
It  would  not  be  very  long,  I  imagine,  before  I 
should  have  a  hearing  as  acute  as  my  fellow 
prisoners  seem  to  have. 

The  Warden  begins  with  an  apology.  "I'm 
very  sorry,"  he  says,  "but  I  forgot  your  news- 
paper to-night."  Then  he  adds  the  usual  remark, 
"I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  forget  it." 

"Don't  worry,"  I  say,  "it  doesn't  make  any 
difference.  I've  read  it." 

The  Warden  stares  at  me  incredulously. 
"You've  read  it!  To-night's  paper?" 

183 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

"Certainly,"  I  answer,  "from  beginning  to  end. 
Don't  you  believe  it?"  And  in  proof  of  my  state- 
ment I  produce  the  paper. 

The  Warden  gasps.  "Well,  how  in  the  devil 
did  you  get  that?" 

"Oh,  come  now!  Don't  you  understand  that 
I'm  a  convict?"  I  say  jeeringly.  "You  mustn't 
expect  me  to  answer  such  a  question." 

The  Warden  takes  it  all  in  good  part.  "Well, 
Dan,"  he  says,  turning  to  Grant,  "this  man  seems 
to  be  on  to  the  game  all  right.  What  shall  we 
do  to  him  for  violating  the  rules  and  smashing 
our  system?" 

"Don't  you  know,"  I  remark  with  a  serious  air, 
"that  so  long  as  you  hold  me  a  prisoner  I  don't 
care  a  pin  for  your  rules,  and  even  less  for  your 
damn'd  system.  What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"I  say  you're  a  dangerous  man,  and  the  sooner 
we  get  you  off  on  parole  the  better,"  laughs  the 
Warden.  "But  you  will  have  to  promise  you 
won't  make  more  trouble  for  us  after  you  get 
outside." 

"Oh,  you're  in  for  trouble,  all  right;  whether 
I'm  inside  or  out."  I  say  it  in  jest,  but  we  know 
there  is  many  a  true  word  spoken  in  that  way. 
The  Warden  will  have  many  new  problems  to 
handle  while  he  is  in  office;  for  the  old  way  is 
worn  out  and  the  new  way  is  surely  coming. 
Fortunately  he  is  a  genuine  progressive  and  the 
new  has  no  terrors  for  him. 

184 


FRIDAY 

Taking  up  the  serious  part  of  our  business,  the 
Warden  says  he  must  go  out  of  town  again  to- 
morrow; and  be  gone  over  Sunday. 

"What  about  that  poor  fellow  they  dragged 
down  to  the  jail  night  before  last?"  I  ask. 

"Oh,  you're  all  wrong  about  that  matter,"  the 
Warden  answers.  "He  was  insolent  and  violent, 
flung  his  bucket  at  the  keeper's  head,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  punish  him.  I've  inquired 
into  it  and  the  officers  were  all  right." 

"You  are  being  deceived,"  is  my  comment. 
"These  men  realize  they  are  in  bad.  They're 
afraid  of  the  truth;  and  they're  steering  you 
wrong.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Warden,  there  is 
more  in  that  affair  than  they  are  permitting  you  to 
know.  And  you  are  up  against  the  System  as 
well  as  the  prisoners  themselves." 

The  Warden  is  troubled,  no  man  has  a  heart- 
ier dislike  of  being  made  the  victim  of  dishonesty 
or  hypocrisy  than  he.  "Well,  what  had  better 
be  done?"  he  asks.  "I  shall  be  very  busy  to- 
morrow before  I  go." 

"Suppose  we  wait  then,"  I  suggest.  "The  man 
is  probably  not  being  abused  now,  wherever  he 
is;  and  after  I  get  out  of  here  you  can  have  a 
thorough  examination  made.  I  can  guarantee 
plenty  of  material  to  enable  you  to  get  to  the  bot- 
tom of  it." 

"I  am  more  than  ever  sorry  I  have  to  go  away," 
says  the  Warden.  "Now  how  about  the  jail? 

185 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

Are  you  still  determined  to  go  there?  And,  if 
so,  how  do  you  propose  to  be  sent?" 

"Well,  as  you  know,  I  don't  wish  to  be  a  fool 
about  this  thing,  nor  do  I  want  to  run  any  unnec- 
essary risk.  To-day  I  felt  very  sick;  and,  to  be 
quite  frank,  if  I  should  feel  to-morrow  as  I  did  to- 
day I  couldn't  be  hired  to  go  to  jail.  But  I  feel  so 
much  better  to-night  that  I  think  I  shall  be  in 
good  condition  to-morrow.  So  what  I  propose 
is  this.  Let  Dan  come  here  to-morrow  noon,  and 
if  I  feel  all  right  we  can  put  through  our  plan. 
I  did  intend  to  go  down  to  the  jail  to-morrow 
morning,  so  as  to  have  the  whole  twenty-four 
hours  there;  but  it  would  be  better  to  wait  until 
after  dinner.  There  is  no  use  in  taking  too  large 
a  dose.  I  ought  to  get  all  necessary  information 
in — say,  four  hours. 

"Some  time  in  the  afternoon,  then,  I  will  simply 
strike  work.  Grant  can  tip  off  the  Captain;  and 
he  will  send  me  to  the  P.  K.  Of  course,  if  a  fel- 
low refuses  to  work,  the  only  thing  they  can  do 
is  to  send  him  to  the  punishment  cells.  If  you 
were  to  be  here  I  had  thought  of  putting  in  a 
warden's  call;  and  then  of  being  so  insolent  to 
you  that  you  would  have  no  recourse  but  to  order 
me  punished.  I  should  quite  enjoy  telling  you 
what  I  think  of  your  rotten  old  institution.  But 
if  you're  going  away  that  plan's  no  good,  so  we'll 
try  the  other." 

"I  think  your  present  plan  is  better,"  says  the 
186 


FRIDAY 

Warden.  "I  should  hate  to  have  you  tell  me 
what  you  really  think  of  us.  Well,  that  ought 
to  work  out  all  right.  Now  how  long  do  you 
say  you  want  to  stay  there?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  I'm  anxious  to  stay 
any  longer  than  just  to  get  a  good  idea  of  what 
the  place  is  like.  I  want  to  feel  the  flavor  of  it. 
But  if  I  should  be  down  there  alone,  it  won't 
be  very  exciting.  Suppose  I  go  down  about  four 
o'clock;  and  Dan  can  come  down  and  let  me  out 
about  eight,  or  half-past  seven,  or  say,  seven. 
I  think  three  hours  will  be  a  big  enough 
dose." 

"I've  ordered  some  clothes  cleaned  for  you," 
says  the  Warden,  "so  those  are  all  right.  Well, 
Dan,"  he  adds,  turning  to  Grant,  "is  everything 
perfectly  clear?" 

Thus  it  is  arranged.  I  say  good-bye  to  the 
Warden;  and  tell  him  that  the  Chaplain  has  asked 
me  to  say  a  few  words  to  the  men  in  chapel  on 
Sunday.  The  Warden  thinks  it  a  good  idea,  and 
adds  that  the  details  about  my  leaving  the  prison 
can  be  arranged  with  Grant  to-morrow.  The 
general  plan  is  that  I  shall  go  out  on  Sunday, 
marching  back  with  the  men  after  the  chapel  exer- 
cises. I  can  then  take  my  belongings  from  the 
cell  and  go  quietly  up  to  the  Warden's  quarters, 
where  I  can  wash  and  dress. 

Our  plans  being  thus  settled,  my  visitors 
depart.  Now  to  bed  to  see  if  I  can  get  a  good 

187 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

sleep  in  preparation  for  the  most  exciting  part  of 
my  exciting  adventure. 

It  is  curious  how  far  I  have  fallen  into  the 
prison  rut.  In  the  evening  I  find  myself  no 
longer  thinking  of  my  home  or  wondering  what 
my  family  and  friends  are  doing,  unless  I  make  a 
conscious  mental  effort.  The  tendency  of  this 
life  is  always  to  flatten  one's  thoughts,  like  one's 
actions,  to  a  gray  uniformity — a  deadening  rou- 
tine. 

Another  sign  that  I  had  better  be  getting  away 
from  this  place:  I  am  losing  all  respect  for  au- 
thority of  every  kind.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  rigid  discipline  increases  respect  for  author- 
ity; it  usually  does  nothing  of  the  sort.  In  this 
place  it  increases  disrespect,  for  many  reasons 
which  it  is  unnecessary  to  mention  here.  What- 
ever the  reasons,  the  fact  is  undeniable.  I  believe 
every  man  in  this  place  hates  and  detests  the  sys- 
tem under  which  he  lives.  He  hates  it  even  when 
he  gets  along  without  friction.  He  hates  it  be- 
cause he  knows  it  is  bad;  for  it  tends  to  crush 
slowly  but  irresistibly  the  good  in  himself. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SATURDAY 
In  my  cell,   Saturday  noon,  October  4. 


THIS  morning, — the  morning  of  my  last  full 
day  in  prison, — dawns  bright  and  sunny; 
a  pleasant  change  from  the  dark,  cloudy 
and  oppressive  weather  we  have  been  having. 
The  routine  of  my  day  has  become  firmly  estab- 
lished now;  and  I  conform  to  it  almost  without 
thought.  At  six  I  arise.  As  I  sleep  in  my  one 
suit  of  underclothes,  my  dressing  may  be  said  to 
have  already  begun.  I  add  my  socks  and  the 
clumsy  state  shoes,  which  are  on  the  chair  close 
at  hand.  Then  I  am  ready  to  stand  upon  the 
stone  pavement  of  the  cell.  After  this  I  gain 
space,  and  at  the  same  time  put  my  house  in 
order,  by  hanging  up  mattress,  pillow  and  blank- 
ets, and  turning  the  iron  bed  up  under  them 
against  the  wall.  Then  I  brush  my  teeth,  wash 
my  face  and  comb  my  hair.  Then  I  finish  dress- 

[89 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

ing  by  putting  on  shirt,  trousers,  coat  and  cap. 
These  and  other  necessary  operations  completed, 
I  am  ready  for  the  day. 

In  the  midst  of  my  toilet  the  electric  light  is 
switched  on;  so  that  the  latter  part  has  been  ac- 
complished with  its  aid.  As  I  have  dressed 
leisurely  there  is  not  very  long  to  wait  before  I 
hear  the  clicking,  which  marks  the  unlocking  of 
the  levers,  far  around  the  corner  to  my  left.  Al- 
ready, however,  I  have  heard  the  tread  of  shuf- 
fling feet  in  the  corridor  below;  and  know  that 
the  first  company  has  already  started  down  the 
yard. 

All  the  familiar  sounds, — the  familiar  rou- 
tine,— seem  to  give  me  a  sort  of  strange,  new 
feeling  on  this  last  day.  It  seems  so  curious  that 
something  which  now  seems  like  the  estab- 
lished order  of  the  universe  should  ever  have 
been  unfamiliar,  or  that  it  should  so  soon  come 
to  an  end — at  least,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. 

The  levers  click;  the  captain  unlocks  the  cells; 
the  long  bar  is  raised;  the  doors  are  opened;  the 
galleries  are  filled  with  hurrying  figures  carrying 
the  heavy  iron  buckets;  and  my  company  forms  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

What  special  reason  there  is  for  so  much  haste 
I  have  not  yet  discovered;  but  I  presume  that 
the  officers  put  off  their  arrival  at  the  prison  to 
the  very  last  moment,  allowing  the  shortest  pos- 

190 


SATURDAY 

sible  time  for  the  operations  between  their  ar- 
rival and  breakfast. 

The  air  and  sunshine  are  pleasant  and  invigor- 
ating as  we  march  down  the  yard  and  back,  empty- 
ing and  leaving  the  buckets  as  usual.  Then  to  my 
cell  where  I  sweep  out  and  shut  myself  in. 

Soon  comes  breakfast  with  its  regular  routine. 
I  have  laid  off  my  cap;  as  the  lever  is  pressed 
down  I  push  open  the  grated  door,  let  Stuhl- 
miller,  Bell  and  the  other  two  who  march  in 
front  of  me  pass  by;  then  fall  in  between  them 
and  the  next  man.  We  traverse  the  short  gal- 
lery to  the  right,  descend  the  iron  steps  and  line 
up  in  the  corridor;  standing  motionless,  with 
folded  arms.  As  the  Captain's  stick  strikes  the 
stone  pavement  the  line  begins  to  move.  Then 
at  a  second  rap  we  march  rapidly  to  the  mess- 
hall.  Just  within  the  door  we  salute  the  P.  K. ; 
then  swing  to  the  right,  turn  to  the  left,  pass 
alongside  the  men  who  have  already  taken  their 
seats  and  are  eating,  and  reach  our  shelf  or  table. 
As  we  stand  at  our  places,  comes  one  rap;  and 
we  lean  down  and  pull  out  our  stools,  standing 
again  erect.  A  second  rap ;  and  we  sit.  Through- 
out the  meal  the  Captain  stands,  rigid  and  silent, 
in  the  aisle  at  our  right. 

Our  Saturday  breakfast  is  rice;  which  I  eat 
with  relish.  My  appetite  is  in  excellent  working 
order  this  morning,  after  a  good  night's  rest; 

191 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

and  I  am  feeling  in  fine  physical  condition.  There 
can  be  no  question  about  the  punishment  cell; 
no  one  who  feels  as  well  as  I  do  has  any  excuse 
for  not  misbehaving  himself.  In  dressing  this 
morning  I  took  up  my  belt  another  notch.  My 
youngest  was  quite  right  when  he  asserted  that 
I  should  not  be  so  fat  when  I  came  out;  I  must 
have  lost  several  pounds. 

I  carefully  avoid  the  coffee  this  morning;  no 
more  bootleg  for  me!  I  reserve  my  thirst  for 
a  good  drink  of  water  when  I  get  back  to  the 
cell. 

Already,  while  we  are  stowing  away  our  break- 
fast, the  companies  in  our  rear  are  departing; 
and  now  our  turn  comes.  One  rap;  and  we  rise 
and  set  back  our  stools.  A  second  rap;  and 
spoons  in  hand  (no  use  for  knives  and  forks  at 
this  breakfast)  we  march  in  double  file  down  the 
middle  aisle, — holding  our  spoons  high  for  the 
officers  to  see  and  dropping  them  into  the  proper 
receptacles  at  the  door.  Then  back  through  the 
stone  corridor,  up  the  iron  stairs  and  along  the 
gallery  to  the  cells.  In  these,  as  there  is  the  wait 
of  half  an  hour  or  more  before  shop-time,  we  are 
double-locked. 

And  now  comes  Dickinson,  to  wish  me  a  final 
good-bye.  He  is  in  his  citizen's  clothes,  and  can 
hardly  wait  to  have  the  gate  shut  behind  him. 

He  assures  me  again  of  his  desire  and  inten- 
192 


SATURDAY 

tion  to  go  straight  and  make  good;  and  I 
put  through  the  bars  two  fingers  which  he  grasps 
as  fervently  as  he  would  my  whole  hand,  if  he 
could  get  it.  Another  moment,  and  the  brave, 
well-meaning  fellow  is  gone.  If  a  man  like  this 
does  not  succeed,  it  is  not  his  fault;  but  the  fault 
of  the  System  which  fails  to  strengthen  his  power 
of  self-control  and  ability  to  bear  responsibility. 

After  Dickinson's  departure  comes  one  of  the 
trusties,  bringing  the  information  which  I  passed 
the  word  along  yesterday  to  get  for  me.  Then 
I  write  in  my  journal  and  read  some  of  the 
kites  which  have  reached  me.  The  latest  one 
I  find  under  the  blankets, — tucked  into  the  strap 
which  holds  up  my  mattress — a  most  ingenious 
hiding  place. 

Then  comes  work-time.  Again  the  captain  un- 
locks the  levers;  and  again  I  follow  along  the 
gallery  to  the  iron  stairway  and  the  yard  door. 
After  a  much  shorter  period  of  waiting  than  at 
our  earlier  march,  we  start  off  and  go  directly 
down  the  yard  and  around  the  corner  to  the 
basket-shop. 

"Good  morning,  Tom!"  "Good  morning, 
Jack!"  and  we  are  off  to  work  in  good  time. 

"Well,  old  pal,  how  are  you  feeling  to-day?" 
I  look  up  and  catch  an  anxious  look  in  my 
partner's  eyes.     I  laugh  as  I  answer:    "Oh,  I'm 
all  right;  and  in  fine  fighting  trim." 

193 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

I  know  what  he  means;  and  he  knows  what 
I  mean.  It  is  the  shadow  of  the  jail  that  is  be- 
tween us. 

"Come  on  now,  Jack,"  I  say;  "don't  worry 
about  me.  I  shall  get  through  it  all  right." 

"But  you  don't  know  what  it  means,"  he  in- 
sists anxiously.  "One  hour  of  that  misery  is 
worse  than  a  week  of  the  worst  kind  of  pain. 
You'd  better  think  it  over." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Jack;  I  have  reconsidered 
it  and  I  don't  believe  I  shall  stay  so  long  as  I 
intended.  In  fact  I  had  planned  to  go  down  this 
morning  but  I  shall  wait  until  afternoon.  I'll 
get  all  I  want  of  it  in  about  three  or  four 
hours." 

"You  can  just  bet  you  will,"  and  Jack  turns 
away  with  a  discouraged  air  to  pick  up  a  fresh 
batch  of  rattan.  I'm  afraid  he  thinks  me  a  very 
obstinate  and  unreasonable  person. 

The  rattan  seems  to  be  worse  than  ever  this 
morning.  They've  tried  cold  water,  and  they've 
tried  hot  water,  and  they've  tried  steam ;  but  like 
the  White  Queen's  shawl,  "there's  no  pleasing 
it."  It  still  remains  quite  unfit  to  work  with; 
and  for  the  sake  of  the  future  usefulness  of  my 
fingers  I  can't  help  thinking  it's  just  as  well  that 
my  prison  bit  is  drawing  to  a  close. 

As  we  are  working  away,  one  of  our  shop- 
mates  comes  over  to  me  (the  same  who  accused 
me  yesterday  of  working  too  hard)  and  says: 

194 


SATURDAY 

"Well,  Brown,  I  think  you  must  be  taking  in  the 
jail  to-day." 

My  surprise  is  great.  No  one,  except  Jack, 
Grant  and  the  Warden,  were  aware  of  my  inten- 
tion, so  far  as  I  knew. 

"What  made  you  think  of  that?"  I  ask. 

"Oh,  they  had  a  jail  suit  washed  yesterday; 
so  I  guess  they're  getting  ready  for  you,"  is  the 
reply. 

These  men  are  certainly  sharp.  They  can  "see 
a  church  by  daylight." 

We  work  busily  at  our  basket-making  through 
the  morning,  Jack  and  I — our  last  day  together. 
I  am  actually  beginning  to  feel  that,  if  it  were  not 
for  the  pressure  of  business  in  my  office  and  some 
engagements  in  New  York  City  next  week,  I 
should  like  to  stay  longer  among  these  new 
friends.  But  it  may  not  be.  I  have  secured  what 
I  came  for — far  more  than  I  expected.  And  now 
the  next  question  is:  what  can  be  done  with 
this  knowledge?  How  can  it  be  utilized  for  the 
state  ?  and  incidentally  to  help  these  men  who  need 
help  so  badly? 

The  noon-hour  approaches.  "Is  it  good-bye, 
now,  Tom?"  says  my  partner,  sadly. 

"Oh,  no,"  I  answer.  "You  don't  get  rid  of 
me  so  easily  as  that.  I  shall  be  back  this  after- 
noon." 

Jack  looks  relieved;  and  we  fall  into  line  as 
usual — the  last  time  I  shall  march  out  of  the 

195 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

shop  with  these  men,  my  close  prison  companions 
of  six  days. 

Down  to  the  bucket  stands;  up  the  yard;  into 
the  north  wing;  up  the  iron  stairs;  along  the  gal- 
lery; and  around  the  corner  to  my  cell.  Then 
off  with  my  cap  and  coat;  some  water  on  my 
face;  a  comb  passed  through  my  hair  and  I  am 
ready  for  dinner.  I  have  time  to  write  a  few 
paragraphs  in  my  journal  before  we  march  to 
the  mess-room. 

For  dinner  roast  beef,  potatoes  and  some  sort 
of  preserve;  quite  the  best  meal  we  have  had,. 
I  must  eat  enough  to  last  over  until  to-morrow 
morning;  although  for  that  matter  the  supper  in 
jail  will  be  similar  to  those  I've  had  every  day — 
bread  and  water.  But  I  feel  as  if  the  ordeal  I 
am  to  pass  through  may  need  all  my  strength.  So 
I  make  good  use  of  my  knife  and  fork;  and  again 
find  the  dinner  time  almost  too  short  for  a  square 
meal. 

Back  to  the  cell,  where  I  arrange  everything  for 
an  indefinite  absence.  Then,  as  I  am  writing  in 
my  journal,  I  am  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of 
Grant.  He  comes  to  find  out  if  there  is  any 
change  of  mind  on  my  part  regarding  the  jail; 
and,  if  not,  to  make  final  arrangements.  I  tell 
him  I  never  felt  in  better  health;  and  that  I'm 
ready  to  carry  out  the  plan  made  last  night.  "I 
will  strike  work,"  I  tell  him,  "between  half  past 

196 


SATURDAY 

three  and  four;  and  be  sent  to  the  jail.  You 
had  better  come  for  me  there  about  seven  o'clock. 
Don't  make  it  any  later,"  I  add,  "because  I  cer- 
tainly will  have  had  a  sufficient  taste  of  it  by  that 
time;  and  I  see  no  reason  for  remaining  any 
longer  than  is  necessary.  So  please  be  on 
time." 

Somehow  Jack's  warnings  and  admonitions, 
while  they  have  not  turned  me  from  my  purpose, 
have  produced  a  feeling  of  disinclination  to  stay 
in  the  jail  beyond  a  reasonable  time.  What  is 
to  be  feared  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know;  or  even 
that  I  fear  anything.  It  is  certainly  not  the 
pleasantest  place  in  the  world;  but — well!  I 
simply  cannot  understand  why  these  men  all  speak 
of  it  in  the  way  they  do. 

So  Grant  goes  away;  and  now  I  close  my  jour- 
nal. To-morrow  morning  I  shall  be  too  busy  to 
write  in  it,  as  I  shall  be  preparing  the  remarks 
I  want  to  make  to  the  men  in  chapel;  that  is,  if 
the  chaplain  holds  to  his  suggestion  of  calling 
upon  me.  I  never  like  to  attempt  a  speech  of 
any  kind  unprepared;  even  an  extempore  and 
unexpected  speech  is  so  much  better  for  a  little 
preliminary  improvising. 

So  here  I  write  the  last  page  within  the  walls ; 
and  go  forth  from  my  cell  to  embark  upon  the 
last  round  of  my  great  adventure.  I  never  ex- 
pected to  end  my  prison  term  with  regrets;  and 
I  am  probably  the  first  man  who  ever  did. 

197 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

At  the  end  of  the  gallery  I  hear  the  familiar 
sound  of  the  key  turning  in  the  locks;  so  here 
go  for  the  last  time  my  pencils  and  paper  into 
the  locker,  as  I  put  on  my  cap  and  coat  and  pre- 
pare to  follow  the  Captain  to  my  final  hours  in 
the  basket-shop. 

Thus  far  my  prison  journal  carries  us.  From  this 
time  on,  for  reasons  which  will  be  apparent,  I  have  to 
depend  upon  subsequent  memory.  It  is  only  fair  to  say, 
however,  that  it  is  memory  made  peculiarly  clear  by  the 
unusual  character  of  the  circumstances. 

The  Captain  unlocks  the  levers;  the  cells  are 
opened;  and  we  march  down  to  the  shop.  With 
a  serious  face  and  without  his  usual  greeting  Jack 
joins  me  at  our  work-table. 

In  fact  Jack  is  not  in  very  good  spirits;  and 
I  have  to  do  most  of  the  cheerful  part.  This  is 
not  surprising;  when  one  thinks  it  over.  A  rather 
exciting  episode  in  Jack's  life  is  coming  to  an 
end;  while  the  most  exciting  part  of  my  adventure 
is  just  beginning.  After  that,  I  am  going  out,  my 
life  enriched  with  an  unusual  and  interesting  ex- 
perience; while  he  is  going  back  to  the  old,  dull, 
depressing  routine.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  he 
feels  gloomy? 

For  about  two  hours,  from  half  past  one  to  a 
quarter  past  three,  we  both  work  away  faithfully 
on  our  basket-making;  and  then  as  I  finish  off 

198 


SATURDAY 

my  last  bottom  I  turn  to  my  partner.  "Well, 
old  man,  the  time  will  be  here  pretty  soon;  and  I 
may  as  well  get  ready  for  it.  I  think  I'll  go  over 
and  wash  up." 

So  I  raise  my  hand  for  permission;  and  upon 
seeing  the  Captain  nod,  as  I  suppose,  I  take  Jack's 
soap  and  towel  which  we  still  use  in  common  and 
go  to  the  sink.  On  my  way  back,  as  I  pass  the 
Captain's  desk,  he  stops  me.  "Brown,  don't  you 
know  that  you  mustn't  leave  your  place  without 
permission?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  is  my  reply,  "but  I  raised  my  hand." 

"I  didn't  see  it." 

"Why,  I  thought  I  saw  you  nod,  sir." 

"I  did  not." 

"Well,  I  am  sorry,  sir."  Then  it  occurs  to 
me  that  this  reprimand  gives  a  good  chance  to 
settle  the  jail  matter  at  once.  Feeling  somewhat 
surprised  at  my  own  boldness,  I  assume  a  rather 
insolent  air  and  remark,  "But  it  makes  very 
little  difference;  because  I've  decided  that  I'll  not 
work  any  more." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  the  rattan  has  been  very  stiff  and 
rotten,  and  my  fingers  are  getting  badly  swollen 
and  blistered.  We  have  complained  but  it  doesn't 
seem  to  make  any  difference.  The  rattan  is  as 
bad  as  ever;  and  I  shall  not  go  on  with  it." 

"Do  I  understand  that  you  refuse  to  work?" 

"Well,  that's  about  the  size  of  it." 
199 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

There  is  an  instant's  pause.    Then 

"Go  and  get  your  coat  and  cap." 

The  foregoing  colloquy  has  been  carried  on 
in  low  tones  for  I  have  no  wish  to  disturb  the 
shop,  or  make  a  show  of  rebellion.1 

I  make  my  way  back  to  our  work-table.  "Well, 
Jack,  I'm  in  for  it!" 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  refused  to  work  any  longer." 

"Gee!  You'll  get  it  in  the  neck,  sure  enough. 
You've  committed  a  serious  offense." 

"That's  all  right;  but  I  wish  my  hands  weren't 
so  sticky.  I  can't  get  them  clean  with  that  cold 
water." 

"I'll  get  you  some  hot  water." 

Jack  goes  off  to  fulfill  his  errand;  and  I  see 
that  Grant  has  come  into  the  shop  and  is  talk- 
ing to  Captain  Kane.  Wondering  if  this  is  the 
first  the  latter  has  heard  of  my  plan  of  action,  I 
take  my  coat  and  cap  down  from  the  hook  and 
put  them  on.  The  men  begin  to  feel  that  some- 

1  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  testing  the  Captain's 
mettle  far  more  than  I  supposed,  for  Grant's  warning  to 
be  on  the  watch  for  such  a  move  on  my  part  had  not 
yet  reached  him,  as  I  thought  it  had.  All  the  more 
must  one  admire  the  admirable  way  in  which  Captain 
Kane  handled  the  matter.  He  showed  himself  cool  and 
collected  under  rather  embarrassing  circumstances,  for 
which  he  was  totally  unprepared.  An  excellent  officer. 

2OO 


SATURDAY 

thing  is  up;  and  a  number  of  them  cease  work 
and  stare  as  an  officer  steps  up  to  our  table. 

"Thomas  Brown." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Come  with  me." 

For  a  moment  I  wonder  what  he  would  do  if 
I  refused.  I  should  like  to  try;  but  reluctantly 
conclude  it  would  be  better  not.  I  turn  and  get 
one  last  glimpse  of  Jack's  mournful  face,  as  he 
stands  at  a  distance  with  the  pail  of  hot  water 
which  he  has  just  secured.  Waving  my  hand  to 
him  and  stepping  off  in  front  of  the  officer,  I 
make  my  way  out  of  the  shop  in  the  face  of  its 
surprised  inmates. 

In  this  order  we  traverse  the  yard;  and  again, 
as  on  the  day  of  my  advent,  I  feel  strangely  con- 
scious of  many  sharp  eyes  looking  out  from  the 
various  buildings.  It  is  about  half  past  three 
o'clock. 

Just  at  the  end  of  the  south  wing  is  a  low 
building  faced  with  stone,  upon  the  ground  floor 
of  which  is  the  jail  office.  The  keeper  who  has 
me  in  charge  guides  me  in  and  orders  me  to  sit 
down.  I  do  so.  He  then  exchanges  a  few  words 
with  Captain  Martin,  who  presides  at  the  desk; 
hands  him  a  yellow  slip  of  paper  and  disappears 
up  the  yard  toward  the  main  building. 

As  I  have  said  before,  the  one  necessary  virtue 
of  prison  life  seems  to  be  patience.  I  sit,  and 

201 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

sit;  and  my  sitting  continues,  as  Mark  Twain  says 
about  the  circular  staircase  at  Niagara  Falls, 
"long  after  it  has  ceased  to  be  a  novelty  and 
terminates  long  before  it  begins  to  be  a  pleasure." 

In  the  meantime,  the  members  of  the  coal  gang, 
returning  from  work  to  their  cells  in  the  south 
wing,  pass  by  the  door  and,  looking  in,  see  me 
awaiting  my  doom.  There  is  deep  surprise  on 
the  faces  of  most  of  them.  The  young  negro 
who  offered  me  his  mittens,  the  day  we  moved 
the  coal  cars — Tuesday  morning,  I  think  it  was, 
but  it  seems  a  long  time  ago — gives  me  a  cheer- 
ing nod  as  he  begins  to  climb  the  stairs.  Then 
Captain  Martin,  noticing  the  attention  I  am  at- 
tracting, shuts  the  door.  But  it  is  too  late.  Un- 
doubtedly the  wireless  has  flashed  the  message, 
"Tom  Brown's  pinched,"  into  every  nook  and 
corner  of  the  prison  by  this  time. 

At  last  the  P.  K.  makes  his  appearance.  He 
takes  his  seat  with  an  assumption  of  great  dig- 
nity in  an  arm  chair;  and  I  rise  and  stand  silently 
before  him.  He  examines  at  leisure  the  yellow 
slip  of  paper  which  Captain  Martin  has  handed 
to  him,  and  clears  his  throat.  "Thomas  Brown," 
he  begins,  "you  are  reported  for  refusing  to 
work";  and  he  looks  up  interrogatively. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?" 

"Well,  sir,  the  rattan  has  been  so  stiff  and 
rotten  that  we  couldn't  do  good  work,  sir;  and 

202 


SATURDAY 

you  can  see  for  yourself  that  my  fingers  are  get- 
ting swollen  and  blistered." 

"You  should  have  made  a  complaint  to  the 
Captain." 

"So  we  did,  sir;  but  it  didn't  make  any  differ- 
ence. So  I  just  told  him  that  I  wouldn't  work 
any  more." 

There  is  a  moment's  pause. 

"Well,  Brown,  this  is  a  very  serious  offense — 
refusing  to  work;  and,  if  you  persist  in  it,  I  fear 
you  will  !iave  to  be  punished." 

"1  can't  -ielp  that,  sir." 

"Do  you  still  refuse  to  work?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  shall  not  work  under  existing  con- 
ditions in  the  shop." 

"Well,  Brown;  I'm  very  sorry  to  punish  you; 
but  I  have  to  obey  the  orders  laid  down  in  such 
cases  by  those  in  higher  authority  than  I  am. 
Captain  Martin,  you  will  take  charge  of  this 
man." 

The  P.  K.  takes  his  departure.  Captain  Mar- 
tin leisurely  unhooks  a  large  key  from  a  locker 
behind  his  chair  and  saying  briefly:  "In  here, 
Brown,"  opens  a  solid  iron  door  in  the  wall.  We 
are  in  the  passage  which  leads  to  the  death  cham- 
ber; that  terrible  spot  where  those  who  are  ad- 
judged guilty  by  Society  of  coldly  calculated  and 
brutal  murder  are  by  coldly  calculated  and  brutal 
murder  put  to  death  by  Society.  As  if  one  crime 
of  such  nature  done  by  a  single  man,  acting  indi- 

203 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

vidually,  can  be  expiated  by  a  similar  crime  done 
by  all  men,  acting  collectively ! 

We  traverse  the  passage,  up  to  the  very  door 
of  the  death  chamber.  Here  is  another  iron 
door  on  the  right.  This  is  unlocked  and  opened; 
and  we  enter  the  jail. 


It  may  be  well,  before  beginning  the  next  chapter,  to 
explain  just  what  the  jail  is  like. 

Up  to  the  advent  of  Superintendent  Riley,  there  were 
in  Auburn  Prison  two  types  of  punishment  cells:  the 
jail,  and  the  screen  cells.  The  latter  are  built  into  the 
regular  cell  blocks  and  are  about  three  and  a  half  feet 
wide  with  the  same  length  and  height  as  the  regular  cells. 
They  have  solid  doors  of  sheet  iron  pierced  by  a  few 
round  holes  about  the  size  of  a  slate  pencil.  These  holes 
are  probably  of  comparatively  recent  origin.  The  doors 
of  similar  cells  at  Sing  Sing  and  Dannemora  had  no  open- 
ings except  for  a  small  slit  at  the  extreme  bottom  and  top. 

Ventilation  there  was  none;  the  occupant  breathed  as 
best  he  could,  lay  on  the  damp  stone  floor  and  went  in- 
sane for  lack  of  light  and  air,  within  full  hearing  of  the 
officers — and  incidentally  of  the  other  prisoners.  The 
use  of  the  screen  cells  at  Auburn  was  ordered  discon- 
tinued by  Superintendent  Riley  immediately  after  he  had 
seen  and  condemned  those  at  Dannemora. 

The  jail  at  Auburn  is  at  present  the  place  where  all 
offenders  against  prison  discipline  are  sent  for  punish- 
ment. 

Whether  the  offense  is  whispering  in  the  shop  or  a 
204 


SATURDAY 

murderous  assault  upon  an  inmate  or  a  keeper,  the  pun- 
ishment is  exactly  the  same — varying  only  in  length.  So 
far  as  I  can  learn,  there  is  no  specific  term  for  any  of- 
fense; so  that  when  a  man  goes  to  the  jail,  he  never 
knows  how  long  he  may  be  kept  there.  The  official  view, 
as  I  understand  it,  is  that  no  matter  what  the  cause  for 
which  the  man  is  sent  to  the  jail,  he  had  better  stay  there 
until  "his  spirit  is  broken." 

The  jail  is  admirably  situated  for  the  purpose  of  per- 
forming the  operation  of  breaking  a  man's  spirit;  for  it 
has  on  one  side  the  death  chamber,  and  on  the  other  the 
prison  dynamo  with  its  ceaseless  grinding,  night  and  day. 
It  is  a  vaulted  stone  dungeon  about  fifty  feet  long  and 
twenty  wide.  It  is  absolutely  bare  except  for  one  wooden 
bench  along  the  north  end,  a  locker  where  the  jail  clothes 
are  kept,  and  eight  cells  arranged  in  a  row  along  the 
east  wall  and  backing  on  the  wall  of  the  death  cham- 
ber. The  eight  cells  are  of  solid  sheet  iron;  floor,  sides, 
back  and  roof.  They  are  studded  with  rivets,  projecting 
about  a  quarter  of  an  inch.  At  the  time  that  Warden 
Rattigan  came  into  office  there  was  no  other  floor;  the 
inmates  slept  on  the  bare  iron — and  the  rivets!  The 
cells  are  about  four  and  a  half  feet  wide,  eight  feet  deep 
and  nine  feet  high.  There  is  a  feeble  attempt  at  ventila- 
tion— a  small  hole  in  the  roof  of  the  cell;  which  hole 
communicates  with  an  iron  pipe.  Where  the  pipe  goes  is 
of  no  consequence  for  it  does  not  ventilate.  Practically 
there  is  no  air  in  the  cell  except  what  percolates  in  through 
the  extra  heavily  grated  door. 

In  the  vaulted  room  outside  there  are  two  windows, 
one  at  either  end,  north  and  south.  But  so  little  light 
comes  through  these  windows  that  except  at  midday  on  a 

205 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

bright,  sunny  day,  if  you  wish  to  see  the  inside  of  the 
cells  after  the  doors  are  opened  you  must  use  the  electric 
light.  There  are  two  of  these  and  each  is  fastened  to  a 
long  cord,  so  that  it  can  be  carried  to  the  farthest  of  the 
eight  cells.  At  the  south  end  of  the  room  is  a  toilet  seat, 
and  a  sink  with  running  water  where  the  supply  for  the 
prisoners  is  drawn.  Up  to  the  time  of  Superintendent 
Riley's  and  Warden  Rattigan's  coming  into  office,  the 
supply  of  water  for  each  prisoner  was  limited  to  ONE  GILL 

FOR  TWENTY-FOUR  HOURS ! 

The  sink  was  not  used  for  the  prisoners  to  wash,  for 
the  simple  reason  that  the  prisoners  in  the  jail  were  not 
allowed  to  wash. 

Other  peculiarities  of  the  jail  system  will  be  made 
clear  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

A  NIGHT  IN  HELL 

AS  Captain  Martin  and  I  traverse  the  long 
stone  passage  leading  from  his  office  to  the 
death  chamber,  I  listen  intently  to  catch 
any  sound  from  the  jail,  for  I  am  wondering 
whether  or  not  I  shall  have  any  companions  in 
misery;  but  nothing  can  be  heard.  Even  when 
the  Captain  unlocks  and  opens  the  door  on  the 
right  at  the  end  of  the  passage  and  I  step  into 
the  dungeon,  there  is  no  indication  of  any  other 
inhabitants.  Except  for  our  own  movements  the 
silence  is  complete,  although  there  is  a  peculiar 
reverberation  of  the  vaulted  roof  which  reechoes 
every  sound  we  make.  I  am  aware  of  a  sort  of 
uncanny  feeling  about  the  place,  as  though  there 
were  some  sort  of  living  creature — man,  ape,  or 
devil — in  every  cell,  with  his  face  close  to  the 
bars,  peering  through  and  holding  his  breath. 

The  Captain,  going  to  a  locker  which  is  at  his 
left,  backing  against  the  iron  wall  of  the  first 
cell,  opens  it  and  takes  out  a  shirt,  trousers,  coat, 
cap,  and  a  pair  of  felt  shoes. 

207 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

"Take  off  your  clothes  and  put  these  on,"  he 
says  briefly. 

I  take  the  clothes  as  he  hands  them  to  me  and 
place  them  upon  a  bench  at  my  right,  where  I 
also  sit  and  proceed  to  make  the  required  change. 
If  these  are  the  clothes  which  have  been  carefully 
washed  and  cleaned  for  me,  I  should  like  to  ex- 
amine— at  a  safe  distance — the  ordinary  ones. 
They  must  be  filthy  beyond  words.  And  I  suppose 
no  one  but  a  prisoner  ever  wonders  or  cares  about 
the  condition  of  the  last  man  who  wore  them. 

I  take  off  my  gray  uniform,  shirt  and  shoes, 
and  as  I  stand  in  my  underclothes  the  Captain 
feels  me  all  over  from  head  to  toes  to  find  out 
whether  I  have  concealed  about  me  a  weapon  or 
instrument  of  any  kind.  I  presume  the  idea  is  to 
guard  against  suicide. 

After  I  have  been  thoroughly  searched  I  clothe 
myself  in  the  soiled  old  shirt  and  trousers,  put 
on  the  felt  shoes,  throw  the  coat  over  my  shoul- 
der and  take  my  cap  in  my  hand.  I  can  not,  for 
the  life  of  me,  see  what  use  can  be  made  of  a 
cap  in  a  dark  cell.  Before  I  hand  over  my  own 
trousers  to  the  Captain  I  take  my  handkerchief 
out  of  the  pocket. 

"You  can't  have  that,"  says  the  Captain  gruffly; 
and  he  snatches  the  handkerchief  out  of  my  hand. 

Well,  of  all  the  unbelievable  stupidity! 

Suicide  again,  I  suppose.  But  has  it  never  oc- 
curred to  anyone  responsible  for  this  System  that 

208 


A    NIGHT    IN   HELL 

a  man  can  strangle  himself  more  easily  with  his 
undershirt  or  drawers  than  with  his  handkerchief? 

Ah!  I  recall  it  now — the  case  of  that  poor 
fellow  who  committed  suicide  down  in  this  place 
several  years  ago.  It  was  with  his  handkerchief 
that  he  strangled  himself;  so  I  have  been  told. 

The  official  remedy,  therefore,  for  suicide  in 
the  punishment  cells  is  to  take  away  your  hand- 
kerchief. 

And  then — leave  you  your  underclothes. 

In  none  too  pleasant  a  frame  of  mind  toward 
prison  officialdom,  I  enter  my  iron  cage.  It  is 
the  first  one  of  the  eight  and  is  absolutely  empty 
of  everything  except  a  papier-mache  bucket. 
There  is  no  seat,  no  bed,  no  mattress  or  bed- 
ding, no  place  to  wash,  no  water  to  wash  with, 
nothing — except  the  bucket.  I  presume  I  ought 
to  be  grateful  even  for  that.  But  I  wish  it  had 
a  cover. 

A  convict  trusty,  who  now  appears  within  the 
radius  of  the  electric  light,  hands  me  a  round  tin 
can,  and  the  grated  door  is  banged  to  and  locked. 
I  take  my  seat  upon  the  floor  and  await  develop- 
ments. 

Soon  the  trusty  hands  me,  through  an  extra 
large  slot  in  the  door,  a  roll  of  pieces  of  news- 
paper, evidently  intended  for  possible  toilet  pur- 
poses. There  soon  follows  a  slice  of  bread,  and 
then  there  is  poked  through  the  slot  the  end  of 

209 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

a  long  tin  funnel  which  holds  a  precise  measure 
of  water.  I  hold  my  tin  can  to  the  end  of  the 
funnel  and  receive  a  gill — neither  more  nor  less 
than  exactly  one  gill — which  is  to  last  me  through 
the  night.  I  never  appreciated  before  what  a 
small  quantity  is  measured  by  a  gill.  The  water 
covers  the  bottom  of  my  tin  can  to  the  depth  of 
about  an  inch  and  a  half. 

And  three  gills  of  water  is  all  the  inmates  of 
this  place  are  allowed  in  twenty-four  hours. 

And  up  to  the  time  that  Warden  Rattigan  took 
office  and  first  visited  the  jail,  all  the  water  a  man 
here  was  allowed  in  twenty-four  hours  was  one 
gill! 

No  wonder  the  men  down  here  go  insane !  No 
wonder  they  commit  suicide ! 

The  electric  light,  held  close  to  the  grated  door 
of  my  iron  cage,  has  enabled  me  thus  far  to  see 
the  operations  of  Captain  Martin  and  the  trusty. 
Now  they  pass  along  to  the  other  cells,  and  I 
can  see  nothing  except  the  fragments  of  their  mov- 
ing shadows  on  the  wall  opposite.  But  they  are 
stopping  at  the  doors  of  the  other  cells,  and  are 
evidently  giving  out  more  bread  and  gills  of 
water.  So  there  must  be  other  prisoners ;  I  shall 
not  be  alone  in  the  darkness,  thank  Heaven! 

Having  finished  their  duties,  the  trusty  departs 
and  the  Captain  follows;  after  extinguishing  the 

210 


A   NIGHT   IN    HELL 

electric  light.  The  iron  door  turns  on  its  hinges 
and  is  slammed  shut;  the  key  grates  in  the  lock. 

Standing  up,  with  my  hands  and  face  close  to 
the  iron  bars  of  the  grated  door,  I  can  catch  a 
glimpse  of  daylight  at  either  end  of  the  dungeon 
where  the  windows  let  in  a  small  portion  of  the 
bright  sunlight  I  left  outside.  I  hear  the  Cap- 
tain's heavy  footfalls  retreating  along  the  stone 
passage  toward  his  office;  then,  muffled  by  the 
distance  and  the  heavy  iron  door  already  closed, 
the  outer  door  clangs  faintly  to,  and  is  more 
faintly  locked. 

Then  a  moment  of  deepest  quiet.  Only  the 
incessant  whirr,  whirr,  whirr,  of  the  dynamo 
through  the  opposite  wall;  and  that  seems  not  so 
much  like  a  noise  as  like  a  throbbing  of  the  blood 
at  my  temples.  The  rest  is  silence. 

The  sound  of  a  voice  breaks  the  stillness. 

"Number  One !     Hello,  Number  One !" 

As  my  cell  is  nearest  the  door,  doubtless  I  am 
Number  One. 

"Hello!"  I  rejoin. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?" 

"From  the  basket-shop." 

"Say!  Is  that  guy,  Tom  Osborne,  workin' 
there  yet?" 

Gathering  my  wits  together  so  as  not  to  be 
taken  unawares,  I  answer  slowly,  "Yes,  he's 
working  yet." 

211 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

Then  there  comes  a  hearty,  "Well,  say!  He's 
all  right,  ain't  he?  What's  he  doin'  now?" 

I  hesitate  for  an  instant  as  to  how  to  answer 
this,  but  determine  that  frankness  is  the  best 
course. 

"He's  talking  to  you." 

"What!" 

"He's  talking  to  you." 

"Gee !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  the 
guy?" 

"Well,  I'm  Tom  Brown;  it's  pretty  much  the 
same  thing,  you  know." 

"Well,  say,  Tom!  You're  a  corker!  I  can't 
believe  it's  you !" 

Here  a  gentle  voice  breaks  in.  "Yes,  I  guess 
it  is  all  right.  I  thought  I  recognized  his 
voice." 

"Yes,  I'm  the  fellow  you  mean,"  is  my  reassur- 
ing statement.  I  feel  that  things  are  opening 
well. 

"Well,  Tom!  I'm  Number  Four,  and  that 
other  fellow's  Number  Two.  But,  say,  what're 
you  in  for?" 

"I  refused  to  work." 

"Gee!     Did  you?    How  did  you  do  it?" 

So  I  tell  the  story  again,  of  my  complaint  re- 
garding our  bad  working  material  and  the  con- 
dition of  my  hands.  Regarding  the  latter  my 
statements,  although  somewhat  exaggerated,  are 
not  so  very  far  from  the  truth.  As  I  mention  my 

212 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

hands  it  occurs  to  me  that  they  feel  very  disagree- 
ably sticky.  They  must  continue  in  that  condition, 
however,  for  some  time,  for  I  can't  wash  them 
until  I  am  out  of  this  place. 

My  invisible  audience  listens  apparently  with 
interest  to  my  story;  and  Number  Four  sums 
up  his  impressions  with  another  enthusiastic, 
"Well,  Tom,  you're  all  right!"  which  seems  to  be 
his  highest  form  of  encomium. 

Presently  I  take  up  some  questioning  on  my 
own  account. 

"Hello,  Number  Four!"  I  begin. 

A  voice  from  the  dim  and  fading  daylight  of 
the  vault  outside  answers,  "Hello,  Tom!" 

"How  many  fellows  are  there  in  here?" 

"Six  of  us,  now  you've  come.  That  fellow  who 
spoke  a  while  ago  is  in  Two,  next  to  you.  There's 
a  fellow  in  Three,  but  he's  got  a  bad  cold  so  he 
can't  talk  very  well.  Then  there's  my  partner  in 
Five ;  and  a  big  fellow  in  Eight,  but  he  don't  say 
much.  Quite  a  nice  party,  you  see,  Tom.  Glad 
you've  come  to  join  us.  Say!  how  long  are  you 
goin'  to  be  here?" 

"I  don't  know.  There  was  some  talk  of  let- 
ting me  out  to-night  if  I  would  promise  to  behave 
myself." 

Then  the  pleasant  voice  of  Number  Two  breaks 
in  again.  "Well,  if  they  don't  let  you  out  to-night, 
you're  good  till  Monday,  because  they  never  let 
us  out  of  here  on  Sunday." 

213 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  reproduce  all  the  con- 
versation of  this  memorable  night.  It  was  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  I  entered  the 
dark  cell.  During  the  next  three  hours,  as  I  sat 
on  the  floor  close  to  the  door  of  my  iron  cage, 
our  talk  covered  a  wide  range  of  topics  from 
grave  to  gay.  We  touched  upon  almost  every 
subject,  from  prison  fare  and  the  ethics  of  the 
jail  to  the  comparative  merits  of  various  trans- 
Atlantic  liners.  We  discussed  politics — New 
York  City,  state  and  national;  Prison  Reform, 
from  various  angles;  the  character  and  conduct 
of  celebrities  we  had  seen  or  known — both  in 
and  out  of  prison;  and  other  things  too  numer- 
ous to  mention.  I  must  confess  that,  on  the  whole, 
more  intelligent,  instructive,  and  entertaining  con- 
versation it  has  seldom  been  my  lot  to  enjoy. 
I  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  under  favor- 
able conditions  the  jail  was  decidedly  the  most 
sociable  place  in  prison. 

The  brunt  of  the  talk  fell  upon  Number  Four, 
Number  Two  and  myself;  with  occasional  remarks 
from  Number  Five.  Number  Three  was  not  in 
condition  to  speak,  as  will  be  seen  later,  and 
he  and  Number  Eight  contributed  only  one  re- 
mark apiece  during  the  entire  night.  The  leader 
of  the  party  was  Number  Four,  and  I  hate  to 
think  what  we  should  have  done  without  him. 

So  much  for  the  lighter  side  of  the  matter.  But 
all  the  time  our  conversation  was  going  on,  more 

214 


A    NIGHT    IN   HELL 

and  more  the  influence  of  the  place  kept  closing 
in  upon  me;  more  and  more  I  found  myself  get- 
ting into  a  state  of  helpless  anger  against  the 
Prison  System,  the  men  who  have  been  responsible 
for  its  continuance,  and  the  stupid  indifference  of 
society  at  large  in  permitting  it.  The  handker- 
chief performance  seemed  a  fair  example  of  the 
unreasoning,  futile,  incredible  imbecility  of  the 
whole  theory  and  practice. 

The  mention  of  the  handkerchief  reminds  me 
of  one  of  Number  Four's  early  remarks. 

"Hey,  Tom,  did  you  know  a  fellow  committed 
suicide  in  your  cell  once?" 

"No,  did  he?"  I  reply,  feigning  ignorance  and 
yawning.  "Well,  I  hope  his  ghost  won't  come 
around  to-night!  There  isn't  room  for  two  in 
this  cell."  At  which  frivolous  remark  they  laugh. 
But  in  spite  of  my  answer  I  do  not  feel  in  the 
least  like  laughing  myself.  The  thought  that  I 
am  locked  into  the  very  cell  which  was  the  scene 
of  the  tragedy  of  that  poor  human  soul,  whom  a 
little  decent  treatment  and  kindly  sympathy  might 
perhaps  have  saved,  only  adds  fuel  to  the  flame 
of  my  wrath. 

Before  proceeding  it  may  be  well  to  give  a 
brief  account  of  my  fellow-sufferers,  as  I  became 
acquainted  with  them  through  the  night  or  learned 
about  them  afterward.  And  let  me  begin  by  say- 
ing that  I  had  fully  expected  that  now  at  last  I 

215 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

was  to  meet  the  worst  that  humanity  has  to 
show.  While  I  had  come  to  prison  strongly  in- 
clined to  disbelieve  in  the  existence  of  a  criminal 
class,  as  distinct  from  the  rest  of  mankind,  yet  I 
had  come  with  an  open  mind,  ready  to  receive  the 
facts  as  I  found  them,  and  duly  readjust  my  pre- 
vious opinions.  I  was  entirely  prepared  to  en- 
counter many  depraved  and  hardened  men,  but 
so  far  I  had  met  none  whom  I  thought  hopelessly 
bad — quite  the  contrary.  I  had  been  put  to  work 
with  the  "toughest  bunch  of  fellows  in  the  prison" ; 
and  I  had  found  myself  side  by  side  with  Harley 
Stuhlmiller,  and  Jack  Bell,  and  Blackie  Laflam, 
and  Patsy  Mooney — the  genial  "baseball  shark," 
and  the  "dime-novel  Kid,"  who  wanted  to  give  me 
his  grapes;  to  say  nothing  of  that  best  of  part- 
ners— Jack  Murphy. 

But  surely  in  the  jail,  so  I  reasoned,  I  shall 
meet  the  "confirmed  criminal."  In  this  prison  are 
fourteen  hundred  convicts — men  who,  under  the 
law,  have  been  found  guilty  of  robbery,  arson, 
forgery,  murder — all  kinds  of  crime;  men  con- 
demned to  live  apart  from  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, to  be  caged  within  walls.  And  now  in 
the  jail — in  this  place  of  punishment  of  last  re- 
sort— here  where  the  refuse  of  the  System  is 
gathered,  I  must  certainly  come  in  contact  with 
the  vilest  and  most  hopeless.  Men  who  will  sub- 
mit to  no  law,  no  control — men  without  faith  in 
God  or  man — men  who  even  in  prison  will  still 

216 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

pursue  their  violent  and  evil  ways;  now  I  shall 
get  to  know  what  such  creatures  are  like. 

And  this  is  what  I  find. 

Farthest  away,  at  the  other  end  of  the  row 
of  iron  cells,  is  Number  Eight.  He  is  a  big, 
good-natured,  husky  chap  from  the  enamel-shop; 
sent  down  to  this  place  of  supreme  punishment 
because  he  had  talked  back  to  one  of  the  citi- 
zen instructors.  For  what  reason  he  is  placed 
in  Cell  Eight,  which  has  no  wooden  floor,  so  that 
its  occupant  has  to  lie  on  the  bare  iron  plates 
covered  with  rivets,  I  am  unable  to  state.  Form- 
erly none  of  these  cells  had  wooden  floors,  and 
everyone  slept  on  the  rivets,  rolling  over  and 
over  through  the  night  as  each  position  in  turn 
became  unbearable. 

Cells  Seven  and  Six  are  empty. 

In  Cell  Four  is  my  sociable  friend,  whose  name 
I  learn  is  Joe;  and  in  Cell  Five  is  the  man  he 
referred  to  as  his  partner,  with  whom  Joe  was 
having  a  friendly  little  scrap  when  they  were  in- 
terrupted and  sent  down  here.  The  two  fellows 
are,  apparently,  on  perfectly  good  terms,  but 
Number  Five  thought  Joe  had  done  something, 
which  Joe  hadn't;  so  he  punched  Joe,  and  Joe 
punched  him  back.  It  was  nothing  more  than  a 
slight  breach  of  discipline,  for  which  a  minimum 
punishment  should  have  been  inflicted — if  any- 
thing more  than  a  separation  and  a  word  of  cau- 
tion were  necessary. 

217 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

In  Cell  Three  is  the  fellow  with  a  bad  cold. 
He  is  being  punished  for  hitting  another  inmate 
over  the  head  with  a  crowbar.  This  sounds  rather 
serious,  but  the  other  fellow  had  called  him  an 
ugly  name — a  name  which  any  man  considers 
himself  justified  in  resenting;  and  one  effect  of 
confinement  being  to  make  tempers  highly  inflam- 
mable, Number  Three  had  resented  the  epithet 
with  the  nearest  weapon  handy. 

In  such  cases  there  is  no  proper  examination 
made  to  see  if  there  are  extenuating  circumstan- 
ces; little  or  no  opportunity  is  given  the  prisoner 
to  state  his  side  of  the  case;  no  belief  when  he 
is  allowed  to  state  it.  The  convict  is  reported 
by  an  officer.  That  is  enough;  down  he  comes 
immediately. 

Called  upon  in  the  course  of  the  night  by  Joe 
to  give  an  account  of  himself,  Number  Three 
makes  his  one  remark.  "You  fellows  '11  hev  to 
excuze  be;  I  god  such  a  cold  id  by  'ead  I  cad't 
talk.  Besides  I  shouted  so  las'  dight  that  I 
cudd't  talk  butch  eddy  how!" 

I  find  myself  wondering  how  Number  Three 
manages  to  do  without  a  handkerchief — having 
so  bad  a  cold  in  the  head.  Blows  his  nose  on  his 
shirt,  I  suppose.  Quite  pleasant  and  cleanly  for 
the  next  fellow  who  is  to  wear  the  shirt,  and  for 
whom  it  will  not  be  washed  by  order  of  the  War- 
den. Again  I  am  thankful  for  that  particular 
special  privilege. 

218 


A   NIGHT    IN    HELL 

Now  I  come  to  Number  Two,  and,  my  feelings 
on  this  subject  being  rather  strong,  I  shall  not 
trust  myself  to  do  more  than  state  coldly  the 
plain  facts.  This  boy,  for  he  is  only  twenty-one 
years  of  age,  on  Tuesday  of  this  week  after 
being  two  weeks  in  the  hospital,  had  an  operation 
on  his  ear,  being  already  deaf  in  that  ear  from 
an  injury  received  before  he  came  to  prison.  The 
operation  was  on  Tuesday;  on  Thursday  after- 
noon, two  days  later,  he  was  discharged  from 
the  hospital  as  being  able  to  work,  although  the 
wound  in  his  ear  had  not  yet  healed.  Being  a 
slight,  lightly-built  youth,  and  just  out  of  the 
hospital  after  an  operation,  he  was  put  to  work 
at — shoveling  coal!  But  the  next  morning,  Fri- 
day, before  he  had  fairly  started  on  his  job,  he 
was  ordered  to  the  jail  office.  There  he  found 
that  a  report  had  come  down  from  the  hospital 
to  the  effect  that  while  there  he  had  been  some- 
what troublesome  and  had  talked  with  another 
patient. 

For  this  offense  the  sick  lad  was  sent  down 
here  to  the  dark  cell  on  bread  and  three  gills 
of  water  a  day.  No  handkerchief  to  wipe  the 
running  wound  in  his  ear.  No  water  to  wash  his 
ear  or  his  face.  Clad  in  filthy  clothes.  And 
when  I  arrived  on  Saturday  afternoon  he  had  been 
down  here  nearly  thirty-six  hours.  And  was  due 
to  stay  at  least  thirty-six  more,  for  "they  never  let 
us  out  of  here  on  Sunday." 

219 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALtS 

Nor  is  that  all.  This  inhuman  treatment — I 
hope  I  am  not  guilty  of  too  much  rhetoric  in  the 
use  of  the  adjective — this  punishment  of  being 
sent  here  to  the  dark  cells,  is  only  one,  as  I  learn 
from  my  new  friends,  of  five  simultaneous  pun- 
ishments, all  for  the  same  offense. 

There  is  First:  Your  imprisonment  in  the  jail, 
under  such  conditions  as  I  am  trying  to  describe. 

Second:  Your  hard-gained  earnings  are  taken 
away  by  a  fine  which  is  charged  against  you  on 
the  prison  books.  As  an  instance,  take  my  own 
case.  My  six  days'  work  in  the  basket-shop  would 
have  entitled  me,  as  a  convict,  to  receive  from  the 
state  of  New  York  the  munificent  sum  of  nine 
cents.  But  my  fine  for  spending  one  night  in 
the  punishment  cells  was  fifty  cents.  So  at  the 
end  of  my  week's  work  I  owed  the  state  of  New 
York  forty-one  cents.  If  I  had  been  a  regular 
convict  I  should  have  had  to  work  four  weeks 
more  before  I  could  have  got  back  even  again. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  had  I  been  a  regular  con- 
vict I  should  have  been  much  more  heavily  fined, 
and  my  punishment  would  not  have  ended  with 
a  single  night. 

This  is  of  course  the  highly  humorous  aspect 
of  my  particular  case.  To  a  prisoner  who  some- 
times loses  several  years'  pay  for  the  privilege  of 
spending  a  few  days  in  these  cells,  there  is  pre- 
cious little  humor  about  it.  At  the  mere  whim 
of  a  bad-tempered  keeper  he  may  lose  the  ac- 

220 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

quisition  of  months  of  patient  toil.  And  against 
the  keeper  there  is  no  practicable  appeal  what- 
ever, for  the  P.  K.  simply  registers  the  action  of 
the  officers,  on  the  theory  that  "discipline  must 
be  maintained."  Experience  has  taught  the  con- 
vict that  there  is  no  use  in  kicking — that  would 
only  be  to  get  into  deeper  trouble;  so  he  takes 
his  medicine  as  the  shortest  and  quickest  way 
out.  But  we  may  be  quite  sure  that  the  convict 
does  not  forget  his  grievance,  and  ultimately  So- 
ciety pays  the  penalty. 

But  let  us  go  on  with  the  other  punishments 
involved  in  this  jail  sentence. 

Third:  The  disc  upon  your  sleeve  is  bulls- 
eyed — that  is,  changed  to  a  circle — or  taken  off 
altogether,  as  a  mark  of  disgrace.  And  you 
never  can  regain  your  disc,  no  matter  how  perfect 
your  future  conduct.  Your  sleeve  shows  to  every 
observer  that  you  have  been  punished;  that  you 
are  or  have  been  a  disturbing,  if  not  dangerous, 
character.  It  is  astonishing  how  much  the  pris- 
oners get  to  care  about  this  disc,  and  how  deeply 
they  feel  the  disgrace  implied  in  the  loss  of  it. 
But  however  strange  it  seems,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  as  to  the  fact. 

Fourth:  If  you  have  been  fortunate  enough 
to  earn  by  a  year's  perfect  record  a  good  conduct 
bar  upon  your  sleeve,  that  bar  is  taken  away,  or 
whatever  credits  you  have  gained  toward  a  bar; 
and  you  have  to  begin  your  struggle  all  over 

221 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

again.  Here  also,  however  odd  it  may  seem  to  us, 
the  prisoners  treasure  greatly  these  evidences  of  a 
good  record,  and  resent  their  loss. 

Fifth:  Some  portion,  if  not  all,  of  the  com- 
mutation time  which  you  may  have  gained  by  pre- 
vious good  conduct  is  also  forfeited,  so  that  you 
may  have  to  serve  out  your  full  term. 

Of  course  one  can  easily  comprehend  how  this 
avalanche  of  punishments,  all  for  the  same  of- 
fense, no  matter  how  trivial,  is  admirably  calcu- 
lated to  inspire  in  the  prisoner  respect  for  au- 
thority, loyalty  to  the  state,  and  love  for  its  of- 
ficials. Its  admirable  reformatory  influence  must 
be  apparent  upon  the  slightest  consideration. 

Such  were  my  companions  of  the  dark  cells, 
and  such  the  nature  of  their  offenses  and  punish- 
ments. These  were  the  voices  and  personalities 
which  came  through  the  bars  of  my  iron  cage,  re- 
flected from  the  opposite  wall. 

It  is  a  very  curious  experience — getting  sud- 
denly upon  an  intimate  footing  with  a  number  of 
people  whom  you  cannot  see,  acquainted  only 
with  their  voices.  The  vaulted  room  gives  each 
sound  with  peculiar  distinctness,  but  I  cannot  tell 
where  any  voice  comes  from;  they  all  sound 
equally  near — equally  far  off.  It  is  the  same 
strange  effect  I  noticed  in  my  regular  cell  in  the 
north  wing.  And  as  I  think  of  that  cell  it  seems 

222 


A   NIGHT   IN   HELL 

by  contrast  rather  homelike  and  pleasant,  but 
very  far  away.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  in  this 
place  a  large  part  of  my  natural  life.  At  any 
rate  I  ought  to  be  getting  out  before  very  long. 
And  that  reminds  me 

"Hello,  Number  Four!"  I  call  out.  "Wasn't 
there  another  fellow  here,  a  chap  named  Lavinsky, 
who  was  brought  down  on  Wednesday  evening?" 

"Sure  there  was,"  answers  the  voice  of  Num- 
ber Four.  "They  took  him  away  about  an  hour 
before  you  came." 

"What  sort  of  a  fellow  was  he?" 

"Oh,  he  was  a  bug,  all  right.  Threw  his  bread 
out  of  his  cell  and  his  water  all  over,  and  hollered 
a  good  deal.  I  guess  they  knew  you  was  comin', 
didn't  they?  That's  the  reason  they  took  him 
out.  And,  say  I  What  do  you  think  they  wanted 
to  do  with  Abey  and  me?"  he  continues.  "They 
took  us  over  to  the  north  wing  and  wanted  to 
put  us  in  a  couple  of  those  screen  cells.  But  nix 
for  us!  We  refused  to  go  into  'em.  Said  that 
Superintendent  Riley  had  ordered  those  cells 
stopped,  and  they  wasn't  legal.  Then  Captain 
Martin  sort  of  laughed  and  brought  us  over 
here.  Seems  as  if  they  didn't  want  you  to  make 
our  acquaintance,  don't  it?" 

And  it  certainly  does  seem  that  way.1 

1 1  have  been  told,  on  very  good  authority,  that  it  was 
seriously  debated  whether  all  the  prisoners  should  not 
be  removed  from  the  jail  before  my  arrival  and  stored 

223 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

On  the  whole,  thanks  to  my  agreeable  com- 
panions, the  time  has  passed  so  quickly  that  I 
am  rather  surprised  when  I  hear  the  farther  door 
unlocked  and  opened  and  steps  coming  along  the 
passage.  This  must  be  Grant  arriving  to  set  me 
free.  Now  I  must  settle  in  my  mind  a  question 
which  has  been  troubling  me  for  the  last  hour 
or  so.  Shall  I  go  back  to  my  cell  or  shall  I  spend 
the  night  down  here? 

On  the  one  hand,  is  my  rising  anger  and  horror 
of  the  place,  the  evil  influence  of  which  I  begin 
to  feel  both  in  body  and  in  mind;  on  the  other 
hand  is  the  sense  that  I  am  nearer  the  heart  of 
this  Prison  Problem  than  I  have  yet  been ;  nearer, 
I  believe,  than  any  outsider  has  ever  come.  I 
am  in  the  midst  of  an  experience  I  can  never  have 
again,  and  it  is  what  I  came  to  prison  to  get. 
Moreover,  if  I  go  now,  will  there  not  arise  a 
feeling  among  the  men  that  at  the  last  moment  I 
failed  to  make  good,  that  my  courage  gave  out 
just  at  the  end? 

elsewhere  temporarily.  But  one  of  the  trusties  pointed 
out  to  a  certain  officer  high  in  authority  that  it  would  be 
rather  awkward  if  I  heard  of  it,  as  I  was  almost  sure  to 
do;  and  thus  in  the  end  it  would  have  a  worse  result  than 
if  things  were  allowed  to  drift.  This  view  carried  the 
day,  so  that  the  removal  of  Lavinsky  was  the  only  change 
made.  The  effort  to  place  the  two  fellows  in  the  screen 
cells,  upon  which  Captain  Martin  was  too  wise  to  insist, 
was  by  Number  Four's  shrewdness  defeated. 

224 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

The  steps  reach  the  inner  door.  Which  shall 
it  be? 

The  key  grates  in  the  lock,  I  hear  the  inner 
door  swing  open,  the  electric  light  is  turned  on. 
Amid  complete  silence  from  the  other  cells  my 
door  is  unlocked;  and  there  appears  before  my 
astonished  eyes  no  less  a  person  than  the  P.  K. 
himself,  attended  by  another  officer. 

In  an  instant  my  mind  is  made  up  about  one 
thing — I  will  not  go  with  the  P.  K.  anywhere. 
At  the  sight  of  his  uniform  a  fierce  anger  sud- 
denly blazes  up  within  me  and  then  I  turn  cold. 
All  my  gorge  rises.  Not  at  the  man,  for  I  cer- 
tainly have  no  personal  grievance  against  Captain 
Patterson,  but  at  the  official  representative  of  this 
hideous,  imbecile,  soul-destroying  System.  I  am 
seized  by  a  mild  fit  of  that  lunatic  obstinacy  which 
I  have  once  or  twice  seen  glaring  out  of  the  eyes 
of  men  interviewed  by  the  Warden  down  here; 
the  obstinacy  that  has  often  in  the  course  of  his- 
tory caused  men  to  die  of  hunger  and  thirst  in 
their  cages  of  stone  or  iron,  rather  than  gain 
freedom  by  submission  to  injustice  or  tyranny. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  breaking  a  man's 
spirit.  It  can  be  done;  it  has  been  done  many 
times,  I  fear,  in  this  and  similar  places  of  tor- 
ture. But  after  you  have  thoroughly  mastered  his 
manhood  by  brutality — after  you  have  violated 
the  inner  sanctuary  of  the  divine  spirit  which 
abides  in  every  man,  however  degraded — what 

225 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

then?  What  has  become  of  the  man?  The  poor, 
crushed  and  broken  wrecks  of  humanity,  shat- 
tered by  stupid  and  brutal  methods  of  punishment, 
which  lie  stranded  in  this  and  other  prisons,  give 
the  answer. 

I  fear  that  in  consequence  of  my  somewhat 
disordered  feelings  I  am  lacking  in  proper  re- 
spect for  lawful  authority.  Instead  of  rising  to 
greet  the  P.  K.  I  remain  seated  on  the  floor  in 
my  old  soiled  and  ragged  garments,  looking  up  at 
him  without  making  a  motion  to  shift  my  posi- 
tion. He  is  evidently  surprised  at  my  attitude, 
or  my  lack  of  attitude.  Bending  forward  into 
my  cell  he  whispers,  "It's  seven  o'clock." 

"Yes;  thank  you,  sir."  I  am  glad  to  find  that 
I  can  still  utter  polite  words,  although  I  am  seeth- 
ing within  and  remain  doggedly  obstinate  in  my 
seat  on  the  floor.  "But  I  think  I  will  wait  until 
Mr.  Grant  comes." 

The  P.  K.  seems  surprised.  With  considerable 
difficulty  he  bends  farther  forward  and  whispers 
still  more  forcibly,  "But  it's  seven  o'clock,  and 
you  were  to  be  let  out  at  seven — it  was  all  ar- 
ranged." 

"Yes,  P.  K.,"  I  say,  "and  it's  very  kind  of  you 
to  take  all  this  trouble,  but  I  don't  quite  know  yet 
whether  I  want  to  go  out.  You  see  there  are  a 

lot  of  other  fellows  here,  and "  I  come  to  a 

stop,  for  I  despair  of  being  able  to  make  the  P.  K. 

226 


A   NIGHT   IN   HELL 

understand.  And  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it, 
I  don't  know  of  any  reason  why  he  should  be  ex- 
pected to  understand.  I  suppose  it's  the  first  time 
in  his  experience  that  a  man  in  his  senses  has  ever 
deliberately  refused  to  be  released  from  this  ac- 
cursed hole. 

"It  was  all  arranged  that  you  were  to  come  out 
now,"  insists  the  astonished  P.  K.,  getting  more 
and  more  serious  and  perturbed.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  thinks  I've  gone  bughouse. 

"Yes,  but  Mr.  Grant  was  to  come  for  me,  and 
he " 

"Well,  Mr.  Grant  told  me  to  come  for  you, 
and  it's  all  right,"  urges  the  anxious  official. 

I  look  up  at  him  with  what  must  be  a  tolerably 
obstinate  expression  of  countenance.  "I  don't 
want  to  leave  at  present,"  I  remark  quietly,  "and 
I  shall  stay  here  until  Mr.  Grant  comes." 

The  P.  K.  looks  at  me  for  a  moment  as  if  he 
would  like  to  order  his  attendant  officer  to  haul 
me  out  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck.  Then  he  shakes 
his  head  in  a  hopeless  fashion,  and  without  an- 
other word  bangs  to  and  locks  the  grated  door. 
The  light  is  extinguished,  and  we  hear  the  inner 
door  shut  and  locked;  footsteps  resound  faintly 
along  the  stone  corridor,  and  the  outer  door  is 
shut  and  locked. 

"Hello,  Tom!"    This  from  Number  Four. 
"Hello!" 

227 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

"Who  was  that?    What  did  they  want?" 

"It  was  the  P.  K.    He  came  to  let  me  out." 

"Come  to  let  you  out;  and  you  didn't  go  ?  Gee ! 
I  wish  they'd  try  it  on  me.  What  did  you  tell 
'em?" 

"I  told  the  P.  K.  that  I  would  wait  until  Grant 
came.  I  told  him  I  hadn't  had  enough  of  the 
jail  yet."  At  this  delirious  joke  there  is  laughter 
loud  and  long.  Then  Number  Four  says, 

"Ah,  don't  go,  Tom!  We  need  you  down 
here!" 

"That's  so.  Sure  we  do  I"  chimes  in  the  voice 
of  Number  Two. 

And  then  there  is  a  murmur  of  assent  along  the 
line. 

"Well,  boys,"  I  say,  "I'll  see  about  it.  I 
shouldn't  have  any  supper  now  if  I  did  go  out, 
and  I  suppose  this  floor  is  as  soft  as  any  pine 
planks  I've  ever  slept  on.  But  if  I  am  to  stay, 
we  must  get  better  acquainted." 

"Sure!"  sings  out  Number  Four.  "Let's  all 
tell  what  we  would  like  for  supper.  What  do 
you  say,  boys,  to  a  nice,  juicy  beefsteak  with  fried 
potatoes?" 

At  this  there  is  a  general  howl  of  jovial  pro- 
test; loudest  of  all  the  poor  lad  in  Cell  Two,  who 
has  had  nothing  but  bread  and  water  for  thirty- 
six  hours,  and  who,  to  emphasize  the  fact  of  his 
coming  from  Boston,  says  something  humorous 
about  beans.  The  ivay  these  prisoners  can  joke 

228 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

in  the  face  of  their  sufferings  and  privations  has 
been  a  continual  wonder  to  me. 

It  is  not  long  before  our  talk  turns  in  a  new 
direction.  The  popularity  of  the  prison  officials 
is  discussed.  They  all  agree  that  the  present 
Superintendent  of  Prisons  is  all  right;  that  War- 
den Rattigan  is  square;  and  not  only  tends  to  his 
business  but  is  on  the  level.  Joe  from  Cell  Four 
expresses  his  opinion  that  the  treatment  by  the 
prisoners  of  the  Warden  when  he  first  took  office 
last  summer  was  inexcusable.  "That  strike  was 
a  dirty  deal,"  he  says.  I  am  glad  to  hear  about 
this,  and  Joe  goes  on  to  give  me  some  interesting 
details.  It  was  not  due  to  the  poor  food,  he  de- 
clares, although  that  was  the  supposed  cause.  In 
reality,  he  assures  me,  the  strike  was  instigated  by 
some  of  the  officers  who  had  no  use  for  Rattigan. 
They  spread  all  manner  of  stories  against  him 
before  he  was  appointed,  and  after  he  took  office 
they  deliberately  egged  on  the  convict  ringleaders 
to  strike  and  fairly  pushed  the  men  into  it.  This 
tallies  with  certain  inside  information  I  had  at 
the  time  of  the  strike  so  I  am  not  indisposed  to 
believe  it. 

As  we  are  still  discussing  these  interesting  mat- 
ters, once  more  the  faint  sound  of  a  key  turning 
in  a  lock  is  heard  and  the  opening  of  the  outer 
door.  This  surely  must  be  Grant.  Steps  come 
along  the  passage,  and  Joe  makes  a  final  appeal. 
"Say,  don't  go,  don't  go !"  he  whispers  at  the 

229 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

last  moment.     "Stick  it  out,  Tom!    Stick  it  out!" 
That  settles  it.     I  remain.     Joe  has  won  the 
day,  or  at  least  the  night. 

The  key  turns  in  the  inner  lock  and  we  hear 
the  door  turn  on  its  hinges.  Then  the  light  is 
lighted,  the  grated  door  of  my  cell  is  again  thrown 
open,  and  Grant  stands  there.  This  time  I  rise. 
"Come  in  here,"  I  say,  "where  we  can't  be  heard," 
and  taking  him  by  the  arm  I  lead  him  back  into 
the  darkness  of  the  cell. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asks  Grant,  with  a  trace 
of  some  anxiety  in  his  tone. 

"Nothing's  the  matter,"  I  answer.  "Only  I'm 
learning  such  a  lot  down  here  that  I  ought  to 
stay  the  night.  There  are  four  or  five  fellows 
in  the  other  cells  and  I  can't  afford  to  miss  the 
opportunity.  Just  explain  to  the  P.  K.,  will  you  ? 
I'm  afraid  I  was  rather  rude  to  him." 

Grant  explodes  in  mirth.  "Well,  you  did  jar 
him  a  little.  He  telephoned  up  to  my  house  while 
I  was  at  supper  and  said,  'Please  hurry  down 
here,  for  I  can't  get  that  fellow  out !'  " 

I  can  not  help  laughing  myself  at  the  poor  P.  K. 
— panic-stricken  because  a  man  refused  to  come 
out  of  the  jail.  "Now  let  me  stay  the  night  here," 
I  say  to  Grant,  "and  send  someone  for  me  at  six 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  But  for  Heaven's 
sake  don't  make  it  any  later  than  six,"  I  add. 

Grant  is  a  little  anxious,  feeling  his  responsibil- 
230 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

ity  to  the  Warden.  "Are  you  sure  you'd  better 
do  this?"  he  asks.  "How  do  you  feel?  How 
are  you  standing  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  the  most  interesting  thing  I  have  done 
yet,"  I  answer,  "and  my  experience  would  have 
been  a  failure  without  it.  Now,  don't  worry.  I 
shall  last  until  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  at  any 
rate.  But  remember — not  a  minute  later  than 
six!" 

Grant  promises  to  arrange  it,  and  our  whis- 
pered conference  conies  to  an  end.  He  and  the 
oither  officer  take  their  departure;  again  the  inner 
door  is  shut  and  locked,  the  footsteps  travel  down 
the  corridor,  the  outer  door  is  shut  and  locked; 
and  then  silence,  which  is  broken  once  .more  by 
the  voice  of  Number  Four,  an  anxious  voice  this 
time. 

"Has  he  gone?" 

Silence.  Then  Number  Two's  gentle  tones,  "I 
think  he  went  with  the  officer.  I  don't  hear  any- 
thing in  his  cell.  Yes,  he  must  have  gone." 

A  sigh  comes  from  Joe,  and  I  think  it  unfair 
to  let  the  matter  go  any  farther.  Some  remarks 
might  be  made  which  would  prove  embarrassing. 

"No,  boys,  I  haven't  deserted  you!" 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  set  down  the  words  that 
follow. 

Now  I  truly  am  a  prisoner;  I  can  not  possibly 
get  myself  out  of  this  iron  cage,  and  there  is  no 

231 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

one  to  let  me  out.  There  is  no  one  except  my 
fellow  prisoners  within  hearing,  no  matter  how 
loud  I  might  cry  for  help.  This  at  any  rate  is 
the  real  thing,  whatever  can  be  said  of  the  rest 
of  my  bit.  And  now  that  all  chance  of  escape 
is  gone  I  begin  to  feel  more  than  before  the  pres- 
sure of  the  horror  of  this  place ;  the  close  confine- 
ment, the  bad  air,  the  terrible  darkness,  the  bodily 
discomforts,  the  uncleanness,  the  lack  of  water. 
My  throat  is  parched,  but  I  dare  not  drink  more 
than  a  sip  at  a  time,  for  my  one  gill — what  is  left 
of  it — must  last  until  morning.  And  then  there 
is  the  constant  whirr-whirr-whirring  of  the  dyna- 
mo next  door,  and  the  death  chamber  at  our 
backs. 

For  a  while  after  the  departure  of  Grant  we 
are  still  talkative.  There  is  a  proposition  to 
settle  down  for  the  night,  but  Joe  scouts  the 
notion.  So  the  conversation  is  continued;  and 
by  way  of  reviving  our  drooping  spirits  Joe  asks 
again,  "Say,  fellows!  What  would  you  say  now 
to  a  nice,  thick,  juicy  steak  with  fried  potatoes?" 

As  by  this  time  we  are  all  ravenously  hungry 
and  some  of  us  well-nigh  famished,  what  is  said 
to  Joe  will  not  bear  repetition. 

Then  we  have  music.  Joe  sings  an  excellent 
rag-time  ditty.  Number  Two  follows  with  the 
Toreador's  song  from  "Carmen,"  sung  in  a  sweet, 
true,  light  tenor  voice  that  shows  real  love  and 

232 


A   NIGHT    IN    HELL 

appreciation  of  music.  I  too  am  pressed  to  sing, 
but  out  of  consideration  for  my  fellow  prisoners 
decline,  endeavoring  in  other  ways  to  contribute 
my  share  to  the  sociability  of  the  occasion.  I  can 
at  any  rate  be  an  appreciative  listener. 

After  a  time,  announcing  my  intention  of  going 
to  sleep,  I  stretch  out  full  length  on  the  hard 
floor — and  it  certainly  is  hard.  However,  it  will 
not  be  the  first  time  I've  spent  a  night  on  the 
bare  boards;  although  I've  never  done  so  in  a 
suicide's  cell,  with  the  death  chamber  close  at 
hand.  I  don't  wonder  men  go  crazy  in  these 
cells;  that  dynamo,  with  its  single  insistent  note, 
slowly  but  surely  boring  its  way  into  one's  brain, 
is  enough  to  send  anyone  out  of  his  mind,  even 
if  there  were  no  other  cause. 

This  is  the  place  where  I  had  expected  to  meet 
the  violent  and  dangerous  criminals ;  but  what  do 
I  find?  A  genial  young  Irishman,  as  pleasant 
company  as  I  have  ever  encountered,  and  a  sweet- 
voiced  boy  singing  "Carmen." 

Is  this  Prison  System  anything  but  organized 
lunacy?  I  fail  to  see  where  ordinary  common 
sense  or  a  single  lesson  of  human  experience  has 
been  utilized  in  its  development. 

"Are  you  asleep  yet,  Tom?"  It  is  Joe's  voice 
again. 

"No,  not  yet." 

"Well,  you  know,  we  don't  do  much  of  that 
233 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

down  here;  but  it's  a  mighty  sociable  place." 
Then,  as  if  the  idea  of  sociability  had  suggested 
it,  "Any  bedbugs  yet?" 

Horrors ! 

"Bedbugs!"  I  gasp,  then  laugh  at  the  sugges- 
tion. "I  don't  see  any  bed;  how  can  there  be  any 
bedbugs?" 

"Well,  I  guess  you'll  have  plenty  visiting  you 
before  the  night's  over,"  says  Joe. 

Number  Two's  plaintive  voice  is  heard  again, 
"I've  just  killed  two." 

Good  Lord !  it  only  needed  this  I 

Immediately  I  begin  to  feel  myself  attacked  by 
vermin  from  all  directions.  I  know  of  no  other 
instance  where  the  power  of  suggestion  can  give 
so  much  discomfort.  Once  mention  vermin,  and 
all  repose  of  mind  is  gone  for  me  until  I  can 
reach  a  bathtub.  Just  at  present,  however,  I 
should  feel  grateful  if  I  could  even  wash  my 
hands. 

Stretched  on  the  floor  at  the  back  of  the  cell 
I  try  to  find  a  comfortable  position,  but  without 
success.  I  toss  and  turn  on  the  hard  boards,  and 
finally  give  a  groan  of  discouragement. 

"What's  the  matter,  Tom?"  Number  Four 
is  alert  as  usual. 

"Oh,  nothing,  only  I  can't  find  a  soft  spot  in 
this  confounded  place.  It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if 
I  had  a  pillow." 

"Guess  you  don't  know  how  to  sleep  on  the 

234 


A   NIGHT    IN    HELL 

floor,"  says  Joe,  and  he  proceeds  to  give  useful 
instructions  as  to  the  best  means  of  arriving  at  a 
minimum  of  discomfort.  Following  Joe's  advice, 
I  remove  my  felt  shoes,  and  with  my  shirt  rolled 
up  on  top  of  them  have  a  very  fair  pillow.  My 
coat  must  be  taken  off  and  thrown  over  the  body 
as  a  coverlet,  for  one  gets  more  warmth  and 
comfort  in  this  way  than  when  it  is  worn.  As 
I  make  these  changes  I  also  shift  my  place  in  the 
cell,  moving  over  toward  the  door;  for  just  as 
Joe  is  giving  me  his  suggestions,  a  suspicious 
crawling  on  my  neck  gives  the  chance  to  remove 
a  large-sized  bedbug  which,  in  spite  of  the  special 
cleaning  the  cell  had  undergone  just  before  my 
arrival,  has  found  its  way  in. 

And  now  comes  a  weird  episode  of  this  strange 
night's  experience.  What  the  hour  is  I  can  only 
guess;  but,  having  heard  the  distant  sounds  of 
the  nine  o'clock  train  going  west,  and  the  nine- 
fifty  going  east,  I  think  it  must  be  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  half  past  ten.  Lying  on  the  hard  floor 
I  am  feeling  not  sleepy,  but  very  tired — drowsy 
from  sheer  mental  exhaustion.  I  hear  my  name 
called  again,  asking  if  I  am  still  awake,  but  I  do 
not  answer,  for  I  hardly  know  whether  I  am  or 
not. 

Suddenly  a  wail  comes  from  the  next  cell,  "Oh, 
my  God !  I've  tipped  over  my  water !" 

For  an  instant  I  feel  as  if  I  must  make  an 

235 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

attempt  to  batter  down  the  iron  wall  between  us. 
I  have  been  hoarding  my  own  water;  let  me  share 
it  with  that  poor  sick  boy.  But  the  next  thought 
brings  me  to  my  senses.  I  am  powerless.  I  can 
only  listen  to  the  poor  fellow's  groans,  while  tears 
of  rage  and  sympathy  are  wiped  from  my  eyes 
on  the  sleeve  of  my  soiled  and  ragged  shirt. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  I  hear  Joe  ask. 

"Oh,  I  just  turned  over  and  stretched  my  legs 
out  and  kicked  the  can  over.  And  now — I  can't 
get  any  water  until  to-morrow  morning!  Oh, 
what  in  Hell  shall  I  do?" 

The  speaker's  voice  dies  away  into  inarticulate 
moaning.  Quietly  I  reach  over  for  my  own  pre- 
cious can  of  water  and  place  it  securely  in  a  corner 
— far  removed  from  any  probable  activities  of 
my  feet.  Then  presently  as  I  lie  quietly,  awake 
and  listening,  I  become  aware  of  a  terrible  thing. 
I  hear  Number  Two  talking  to  himself  and  then 
calling  out  to  Joe,  "When  he  comes  in  here  to- 
morrow morning,  I'll  just — I'll — I'll  throw  my 
bucket  at  his  head!"  and  I  realize  that  he  is  talk- 
ing of  an  assault  upon  the  keeper.  Then  he  begins 
to  mutter  wild  nothings  to  himself.  Gradually 
there  dawns  upon  me  a  hideous  thought — the  poor 
lad  is  going  out  of  his  mind. 

What  shall  I  do?  What  can  I  do?  What 
can  anyone  do?  If  we  could  only  get  some  water 
to  him!  But  the  iron  cage  is  solid  on  all  sides. 
If  we  could  only  arouse  the  keeper!  But  there 

236 


A    NIGHT    IN   HELL 

is  no  possible  way  to  make  anyone  hear.  We 
could  all  scream  our  lungs  out  and  no  one  would 
come.  We  might  all  go  mad  and  die  in  our  cells 
and  no  one  would  come. 

But  if  I  am  helpless,  not  so  Number  Four.  I 
soon  hear  Joe  beginning  to  talk  with  the  boy; 
and  I  perceive  that  Joe  also  has  realized  the  situ- 
ation, and  with  admirable  patience  and  tact  is 
applying  the  remedy.  Never  have  I  witnessed  a 
finer  act  of  Christian  charity  toward  suffering 
humanity,  never  more  skilful  treatment  of  a  sick 
and  nervous  fellow-creature.  The  first  thing  an 
intelligent  doctor  would  advise  in  such  a  case  is 
that  the  patient  should  confide  in  a  sympathetic 
friend,  air  his  grievance,  get  it  out  of  his  system, 
let  the  dangerous  gases  escape.  A  more  sympa- 
thetic friend  than  Joe  one  could  not  find.  Bit  by 
bit  he  draws  Number  Two's  story  from  him  and 
encourages  him  to  vent  his  anger  at  the  prison 
officials  and  their  whole  infernal  system,  and  in 
fact  at  all  things  and  persons  related  to  his  pres- 
ent situation. 

Then  having  laid  bare  the  wound  Joe  begins 
to  apply  antiseptic  and  soothing  treatment.  "Now 
you  mustn't  worry  too  much  about  this  thing," 
is  the  advice  of  the  sympathetic  listener.  "You've 
had  a  rotten  deal,  but  listen  to  this."  And  he 
relates  some  peculiarly  atrocious  case  of  punish- 
ment— true  or  otherwise.  He  gradually  soothes 
the  boy's  irritated  temper,  and  then  at  the  ap- 

237 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

propriate  moment  says,  "Now  give  us  another 
song!" 

Number  Two,  after  some  demur,  complies; 
sings  a  tender,  sentimental  ballad,  and  evidently 
feels  better. 

Then  Joe  cracks  a  joke;  chats  with  Number 
Two  about  a  few  topics  of  general  interest;  and 
then,  yawning,  expresses  his  own  intention  of 
going  to  sleep.  There  are  a  few  scattered  inci- 
dental remarks  at  ever  longer  intervals.  Then  as 
I  listen  carefully  and  hear  nothing  in  the  next 
cell,  I  conclude  that  Number  Two  is  safely  over 
the  strain  for  the  time;  that  with  Joe's  help  he 
has  conquered  his  black  mood  and  is  back  on  the 
right  road  again. 

Good  for  you,  Joe !  Whatever  your  sins  and 
failures  of  the  past,  whatever  your  failures  and 
sins  of  the  future,  I  do  not  believe  that  the  Re- 
cording Angel  will  forget  to  jot  down  something 
to  your  credit  for  this  night  in  Cell  Four. 

Quiet  has  settled  upon  us.  There  is  heavy 
breathing  in  some  of  the  cells,  and  I  think  that 
even  Joe  is  contradicting  his  statement  regarding 
sleep  in  the  jail.  But  for  a  long  time  I  can  get 
no  such  relief.  My  ever  increasing  sympathy 
and  anger  are  making  me  feverish.  But  at  last, 
somewhere  near  midnight  as  near  as  I  can  judge, 
I  do  succeed  in  dropping  off  to  sleep.  It  is  a 
restless  slumber  at  the  best,  for  I  am  repeatedly 

238 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

made  aware  of  some  bone  or  muscle  with  the 
existence  of  which  I  am  not  usually  concerned. 
So  I  twist  and  turn,  as  every  few  moments  I  am 
hazily  and  painfully  aroused  into  semi-conscious- 
ness. 

But  even  this  restless  slumber  is  denied  me. 
Before  I  have  found  relief  in  it  for  more  than 
half  an  hour  I  am  suddenly  and  roughly  awak- 
ened. The  door  of  the  cell  is  rattled  violently 
and  a  harsh  voice  calls  out,  "Here!  Answer  to 
your  name!  Brown!" 

Recovering  my  dazed  and  scattered  senses  as 
well  as  I  can,  I  reply,  "Here,  sir!"  and  have  a 
mind  to  add,  "Still  alive,"  but  suppress  the  im- 
pulse as  I  wish  to  ask  a  favor. 

"Officer,"  I  say,  as  politely  as  possible,  "that 
poor  fellow  in  the  next  cell  has  tipped  over  his 
can  of  water.  Can't  you  let  him  have  some 
more?" 

The  answer  is  far  more  courteous  than  I  de- 
serve for  such  an  unheard-of  and  scandalous  prop- 
osition. The  keeper  says  shortly  and  gruffly, 
"  'Fraid  I  can't.  'Gainst  the  rules."  And  he 
coolly  proceeds  to  wake  up  the  occupants  of  the 
other  cells. 

Setting  my  teeth  firmly  together,  while  the 
blood  goes  rushing  to  my  temples,  I  feel  for  the 
moment  as  if  I  should  smother.  Perhaps  it  is  as 
well  that  I  am  under  lock  and  key,  for  I  should 
like  to  commit  murder.  To  think  that  any  man 

239 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

can  grow  so  callous  to  human  suffering  as  to 
forget  the  very  first  duty  of  humanity.  Even 
soldiers  on  the  battlefield  will  give  a  drink  of 
water  to  a  dying  enemy.  And  here  we  have  an 
organized  System  which  in  cold  blood  forbids  the 
giving  of  a  few  drops  to  the  parched  lips  of  a 
sick  lad,  to  save  him  from  misery  and  madness! 
And  if  I  am  almost  stifling  with  anger  at  the 
outrage,  what  must  those  men  feel  who  are  really 
suffering?  What  must  those  have  felt  who  in  the 
past  have  been  kept  here  day  after  day,  slowly 
dying  of  thirst  or  going  mad  on  one  gill  of  water 
in  twenty-four  hours? 

Is  it  imagination  that  the  very  air  here  seems 
to  be  tainted  with  unseen  but  malign  and  potent 
influences,  bred  of  the  cruelty  and  suffering — the 
hatred  and  madness  which  these  cells  have  har- 
bored? If  ever  there  were  a  spot  haunted  by 
spirits  of  evil,  this  must  surely  be  the  place.  I 
have  been  shown  through  dungeons  that  seemed 
to  reek  with  the  misery  and  wretchedness  with 
which  some  lawless  medieval  tyrant  had  filled 
them;  but  here  is  a  dungeon  where  the  tyrant  is 
an  unreasoning,  unreachable  System,  based  upon 
the  law  and  tolerated  by  good,  respectable,  re- 
ligious men  and  women.  Even  more  then  than 
the  dungeons  of  Naples  is  this  "the  negation  of 
God";  for  its  foundation  is  not  the  brutal  whim 
of  a  degenerate  despot,  but  the  ignorance  and 
indifference  of  a  free  and  civilized  people.  Or 

240 


A   NIGHT   IN   HELL 

rather,  this  is  worse  than  a  negation  of  God,  it 
is  a  betrayal  of  God. 

After  duly  waking  my  companions  the  keeper 
amuses  himself  by  fussing  with  the  steam  pipes. 
The  vault  was  already  disagreeably  close  and  hot; 
but  he  chooses  to  make  it  still  hotter,  and  none 
of  us  dares  to  remonstrate.  Then  he  turns  out 
the  light  and  goes  his  way,  and  he  certainly  carries 
with  him  my  own  hearty  maledictions,  if  not  those 
of  my  fellow  prisoners. 

It  is  hopeless  to  think  of  going  to  sleep  again 
at  once,  although  my  head  is  thick  and  my  eyes 
heavy  with  fatigue.  So  again  I  sit  close  to  the 
-grated  door  and  open  up  communication  with 
Joe.  As  usual,  he  is  entirely  willing  to  give  his 
attention,  and  enters  readily  into  conversation. 

"Hey,  Tom!  Do  you  want  to  know  my  name? 
It's  Joseph  Matto.  Funny  name  for  an  Irish- 
man, ain't  it?  Well,  you  know,  it  ain't  my  real 
name.  My  real  name's  McNulty.  But  you  see 
it  was  this  way.  When  my  case  came  up  in  court, 
down  in  New  York,  they  called  out,  'Joseph 
Matto';  and  the  cop  said,  'Here,  you,  get  up 
there!'  I  said,  'That  ain't  my  name';  and  he 
said,  'Never  you  mind,  get  up!'  So  you  see  I 
got  some  other  fellow's  name,  but  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  keep  it,  and  so  I  have  ever 
since. 

"But  it's  all  right,  because  I  don't  want  to  dis- 
241 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

grace  my  folks.  They  don't  know  where  I  am, 
and  I  wouldn't  have  my  mother  know  for  any- 
thing. You  see,  I'm  the  black  sheep  of  the  family, 
the  rest  are  all  right.  I'm  the  only  one  that 
ain't  goin'  straight.  But  when  I  get  out  of  here 
I  mean  to  go  straight.  Say,  Tom,  do  you  think 
I  can  get  a  job,  here  in  Auburn?  My  bit  is  up 
in  December,  and  I  should  like  to  stay  here  and 
get  straight  before  I  go  back  home." 

"When  you  get  out,"  is  my  answer,  "it  will 
be  up  to  me  to  stand  treat  for  a  dinner  of  beef- 
steak and  fried  potatoes,  at  any  rate.  And  I'll 
do  the  best  I  can  to  help  you  get  a  job,  Joe,  if 
you  really  do  mean  to  go  straight.  But  in  that 
neither  I  nor  any  one  else  can  help  you ;  you  know 
you'll  have  to  do  that  yourself." 

Poor  Number  Four!  I  have  not  the  slightest 
doubt  he  means  what  he  says,  but  here  again — 
this  cursed  System.  It  is  particularly  deadening 
to  a  young  fellow  like  Joe.  He  evidently  has 
just  that  lively,  good-natured,  shiftless,  irresponsi- 
ble temperament  which  needs  to  be  carefully 
trained  in  the  bearing  of  responsibility. 

While  Joe  and  I  are  conversing,  Number  Eight 
makes  his  one  remark.  "Would  there  be  a  job 
for  a  bricklayer  around  here?" 

I  don't  know,  and  tell  him  so;  but  add,  as  in 
Joe's  case,  that  if  he  means  to  go  straight  I  will 
gladly  do  what  I  can  for  him;  and  in  any  event 
I  consider  that  I  owe  each  of  them  a  good  dinner. 

242 


A    NIGHT   IN   HELL 

Thus  it  is  agreed  that  they  will  all  dine  with  me 
in  turn  upon  the  happy  occasions  of  their  release. 

"By  the  way,  Tom,  did  you  go  up  to  that 
Bertillon  room?"  Joe  is  off  on  a  new  tack. 

"Oh,  yes.     I  did  all  the  regular  stunts." 

"Were  you  measured  and  photographed,  and 
all  that?" 

"Yes,  and  my  finger  prints  taken.  I  went 
through  the  whole  thing." 

"Gee!  Well,  then,  they'll  have  your  picture  in 
the  rogues'  gallery,  won't  they,  along  with  the 
rest  of  us?" 

"I  suppose  they  will,"  is  my  answer,  and  then 
I  tell  how  my  scars  and  marks  were  all  discov- 
ered and  duly  set  down  in  the  record;  and  wind 
up  with  a  variation  of  the  same  mild  joke  which 
so  bored  the  clerk  of  the  Bertillon  room.  "And 
do  you  know,  boys,  after  he  had  got  me  all  sized 
up  and  written  down,  I  felt  as  if  it  would  never 
be  safe  for  me  to  adopt  burglary  as  a  profession; 
and  I've  always  rather  looked  forward  to  that." 

My  companions  are  not  bored  but  appreciative, 
they  laugh  with  some  heartiness.  Then  after  a 
pause  Joe  says  quite  seriously,  "Well  say,  Tom! 
I  can  just  tell  you  one  thing,  you  needn't  ever 
have  any  fear  that  your  house  will  be  entered!" 

"Oh!  Do  you  think  the  crooks  will  all  recog- 
nize me  as  one  of  themselves?" 

"Sure!"  is  Joe's  hearty  rejoinder.  He  evi- 
243 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

dently  considers  it  a  compliment,  and  I  accept  it 
as  such.  At  any  rate  I  have  apparently  hit  upon 
rather  a  novel  form  of  burglary  insurance. 

It  must  be  somewhere  between  half  past  one 
and  two  o'clock  that  sheer  exhaustion  sends  me 
off  to  sleep  again.  This  time  my  slumber  is 
more  successful  than  before.  It  is  only  occa- 
sionally that  the  discomfort  of  the  hard  floor 
forces  me  back  into  consciousness,  and  forces  me 
also  to  such  changes  of  position  as  seem  necessary 
to  prevent  my  bones  coming  through.  Many  of 
them  seem  to  be  getting  painfully  near  the  surface. 

It  was  Number  Five,  I  think,  who  informed 
me  that  it  is  the  custom  down  here  for  the  keeper 
to  visit  us  every  four  hours — at  half  past  twelve 
and  half  past  four.  The  first  visit  I  have  de- 
scribed. After  that,  for  nearly  three  hours,  I  get 
such  sleep  as  the  hard  floor  affords.  About  half 
past  four  I  am  having  an  interval  of  semi-con- 
sciousness— enough  to  realize  dimly  how  utterly 
worn  out  I  still  feel  both  in  body  and  mind,  and 
how  both  crave  more  rest.  So  I  am  struggling 
very  hard  not  to  awake,  when  the  light  of  the 
keeper's  electric  bull's-eye  flashes  through  the  iron 
grating  straight  into  my  eyes. 

With  curses  too  violent  and  sincere  for  utter- 
ance I  report  myself  still  in  existence. 

Now  I  am  so  constituted  that  at  the  best  of 
times  a  sudden  awakening  always  annoys  me 

244 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

greatly.  Just  now  it  quite  upsets  my  equilibrium. 
A  torrent  of  rage  and  hate  surges  up  through  my 
whole  being;  it  fairly  frightens  me  by  its  violence. 
For  a  moment  I  feel  as  if  I  were  being  strangled. 
Then  I  make  up  my  mind  that  I  must  and  will  get 
to  sleep  again,  in  spite  of  the  keeper  and  his  in- 
fernal light;  and  I  make  desperate  attempts  to 
do  so,  for  I  realize  that  I  am  expected  to  speak 
in  chapel  before  many  hours,  and  have  a  trying 
day  before  me.  I  am  bound,  therefore,  to  have 
myself  in  no  worse  condition  than  I  can  possi- 
bly help. 

But  of  course  it  is  impossible  to  get  to  sleep 
again,  I  can  only  follow  my  whirling  thoughts. 
How  in  the  world  am  I  ever  to  speak  to  those 
men  in  chapel?  What  in  Heaven's  name  can  I 
say?  How  can  I  trust  myself  to  say  anything? 
How  can  I  urge  good  conduct,  when  my  whole 
soul  cries  out  in  revolt?  How  can  I  preach  resig- 
nation and  patience  against  this  dark  background 
of  horror? 

An  aching,  overwhelming  sense  of  the  hideous 
cruelty  of  the  whole  barbaric,  brutal  business 
sweeps  over  me;  the  feeling  of 'moral,  physical 
and  mental  outrage;  the  monumental  imbecility 
of  it  all;  the  horrible  darkness;  the  cruel  iron 
walls  at  our  backs;  the  nerve-racking  monotone 
of  the  whirring  dynamo  through  the  other  wall; 
the  filth;  the  vermin;  the  bad  air;  the  insufficient 
food;  the  denial  of  water;  and  the  overpowering, 

245 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

sickening  sense  of  accumulated  misery — of  mad- 
ness and  suicide,  haunting  the  place.  How  can 
I  speak  of  these  things?  How  can  I  not  speak 
of  them?  How  can  I 

Hark! 

Click !  Click !  Click !  Click !  I  hear  the  levers 
being  pressed  down  by  the  officer,  and  the  stirring 
of  life  along  the  galleries. 

Click!  Click!  Click!  Click!  I  had  no  idea  it 
was  possible  to  hear  the  sounds  from  the  south 
wing,  'way  in  here.  And  it  is  still  so  early  in  the 
morning— only  half  past  four. 

Click!  Click!  Click!  It  must  be  the  prisoners 
who  work  in  the  kitchens,  they  are  the  only  ones 
who  would  be  moving  at  such  an  hour.  But 
again,  how  is  it  possible  to  hear  them  so  far 
away,  shut  in  as  we  are  by  stone  walls  and  iron 
doors? 

Uneasily  I  shift  my  position  and  turn  over  on 
my  left  side,  which  feels  temporarily  less  bruised 
and  painful  than  the  other.  The  clicking  stops. 
But  other  vague  sounds  succeed;  and  then  sud- 
denly  

Tramp!  Tramp!  Tramp!  Tramp!  It  is  the 
march  of  the  gray  companies  down  the  stone 
walk  of  the  yard. 

Tramp!  Tramp!  Tramp!  Tramp!  It  is  cer- 
tainly not  only  the  kitchen  gang,  for  there  must 
be  many  companies  of  them. 

Tramp !     Tramp 

246 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

But  this  is  ridiculous,  at  half  past  four  in  the 
morning!  It  can't  be  true,  it  must  be  my  imag- 
ination. I  am  not  really  hearing  these  sounds, 
for  my  reason  tells  me  they  are  impossible. 

Nevertheless  I  do  hear  them.  Tramp  1  Tramp  1 
Tramp  1  Tramp  1 

I  try  in  vain  to  reason  myself  out  of  the  evi- 
dences of  my  senses.  I  am  hearing  sounds  that 
I  am  sure  do  not  exist. 

Tramp  I    Tramp !    Tramp 

Heavens  1    Am  I  going  mad? 

This  is  past  bearing.  I  abandon  the  attempt 
to  sleep  and  sit  up.  As  I  do  so  the  cell  is  sud- 
denly filled  with  flying  sparks  which  dance  from 
one  end  to  the  other.  Aghast,  I  steady  myself 
with  my  back  against  the  side  of  the  cell. 

This  is  getting  serious.  I  grit  my  teeth  to- 
gether, and,  shutting  my  eyes  in  the  hope  of  keep- 
ing out  the  sight  of  the  flitting  sparks,  I  say  firmly 
to  myself,  "This  must  not  be.  Don't  lose  your 
nerve.  Cool  down.  Control  yourself.  Slow  up. 
Keep  steady." 

As  I  rise  to  my  feet  my  head  seems  to  clear,  the 
sparks  disappear,  the  sound  of  marching  foot- 
steps had  already  ceased.  There  is  nothing  to  see 
or  hear— only  the  dreadful  blackness  and  the 
dead  silence  of  the  night.  I  take  two  turns  about 
the  cell,  carefully  refraining  from  kicking  over 
the  bucket  in  the  corner,  and  then  stand  close  to 
the  grating,  in  the  hope  of  a  breath  of  cool,  fresh 

247 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

air.     But  there  is  no  such  thing  in  this  foetid 

place. 

"Joe!    Are  you  awake?" 
"Hello!    What's  the  matter?" 
"For  God's  sake  talk  to  me!" 
"Sure!     What  shall  we  talk  about?" 
"Anything.     I  don't  care.     Only  something." 

So  Joe  begins  to  chat  with  me,  and  presently 
Number  Two  joins  in,  and  Number  Five  has  a 
few  words  to  say.  What  we  talk  about  I  have 
not  the  faintest  recollection;  it  is  the  only  part 
of  this  night's  occurrences  that  makes  no  impres- 
sion whatever  on  my  memory.  I  only  know  that 
I  am  longing  for  speedy  escape  as  I  have  seldom 
longed  for  anything;  that  I  am  saying  constantly 
to  myself,  "It  can't  be  more  than  an  hour  more ! 
They  must  surely  come  in  about  forty  minutes! 
Half  an  hour!  Half  an  hour!  It  can't  go  be- 
yond that!  Oh,  why  don't  they  come?" 

I  answer  any  remarks  directed  to  me  quite  at 
random,  for  I  am  waiting,  waiting,  waiting,  and 
listening. 

An  hour  and  a  half  does  not  seem  such  an  end- 
less period  of  time  usually.  Well,  it  all  depends. 
When  you  are  in  a  dark  prison  cell,  waiting  for 
deliverance,  it  seems  a  lifetime.  I  lived 
through  every  hour  in  the  minute  of  that  inter- 
minable period  of  five  thousand  four  hundred 
seconds. 

248 


A   NIGHT    IN   HELL 

At  last  I  hear  a  sound — one  of  the  most  wel- 
come sounds  I  ever  heard — the  six  o'clock  train 
blowing  off  steam  over  at  the  New  York  Central 
station.  I  find  myself  wondering  why  I  am  not 
ready  to  shout  with  joy,  and  I  discover  it  is  be- 
cause I  feel  as  if  all  power  of  emotion  had  been 
crushed  out  of  me.  It  is  not  merely  utter  and 
hopeless  fatigue;  it  is  as  if  something  had  broken 
inside  of  me;  as  if  I  could  never  be  joyous  again; 
as  if  I  must  be  haunted  forever  by  a  sense  of 
shame  and  guilt  for  my  own  share  of  responsi- 
bility for  this  iniquitous  place.  My  sensation, 
when  at  last  I  hear  the  sound  of  the  key  in  the 
lock  of  the  outer  door,  is  not  one  of  exultation, 
only  of  approaching  relief  from  deadly  pain — 
pain  which  has  become  almost  insupportable. 

Once  more  we  hear  the  outer  door  open  and 
steps  coming  along  the  passage.  I  rise  from  my 
seat  on  the  floor,  and  put  on  my  shirt  and  shoes 
as  I  whisper,  "Good  bye,  boys.  I  wish  I  could 
take  you  with  me."  Then  the  inner  door  is 
opened,  the  light  is  lighted,  and  my  cell  door 
swings  out. 

Some  one  stands  there — I  do  not  know  who — I 
do  not  care.  Listlessly,  like  one  in  a  dream,  I 
pick  up  my  cap  and  coat;  and  silently,  wearily, 
move  out  and  toward  the  bench  where  I  changed 
my  clothes  last  night.  Last  night! — a  thousand 
years  ago.  The  officer — the  keeper — the  man, 
whoever  he  is,  who  has  come  to  release  me,  pro- 

249 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

duces  my  regular  prison  uniform;  and  listlessly, 
silently,  wearily,  I  make  the  change,  dropping  my 
jail  garments  upon  the  floor.  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  like  to  grind  my  heels  into  the  loathsome, 
hated  things. 

With  a  parting  look  along  the  row  of  cells 
which  imprison  my  comrades,  and  choking  down 
my  feelings  as  I  think  of  the  sick  lad  we  are 
leaving  without  water,  I  stumble  along  the  pass- 
age to  the  jail  office,  pausing  only  while  my 
attendant  locks  behind  us  the  two  iron 
doors.  Another  moment  and  I  feel  my  lungs 
expand  with  a  deep  refreshing  breath,  and 
find  myself  out  in  the  ghostly  quiet  of  the  prison 
yard. 

The  morning  air  is  fresh  and  cool,  and  there 
is  a  soft  gray  light  which  seems  to  touch  sooth- 
ingly the  old  gray  stones  of  the  prison;  but  I 
have  a  feeling  as  if  nothing  were  alive,  as  if  I 
were  a  gray,  uneasy  ghost  visiting  a  city  of  the 
dead.  The  only  thing  suggestive  of  life  seems 
to  be  the  sound  of  my  heavy  shoes  upon  the  stone 
pavement. 

I  have  a  remote  impression  that  my  attendant 
is  saying  something.  Perhaps  I  answer  him.  I 
think  I  do,  but  I  am  not  sure.  If  so,  it  is  only 
from  the  force  of  habit,  not  from  any  conscious 
mental  process. 

We  traverse  the  upper  part  of  the  yard  and 
enter  the  main  building.  Here  my  shoes  make 

250 


A    NIGHT    IN   HELL 

such  a  clatter  on  the  stone  floor  that  my  guide 
looks  at  them  inquiringly.  I  do  not  know  whether 
he  recommends  their  removal  or  whether  I  do 
it  of  my  own  accord;  I  am  only  aware  that  I 
have  taken  them  off  and  am  carrying  them  in  my 
left  hand  as  we  mount  the  iron  stairs  and  creep 
quietly  along  the  familiar  gallery  of  the  second 
tier. 

At  Number  15  we  stop,  the  key  is  turned  in 
the  lock,  the  lever  clicks,  the  door  opens,  and 
I  enter  my  cell.  I  think  the  man  says  something; 
I  do  not  know.  I  stand  motionless  just  within 
the  door,  as  it  swings  to  and  is  locked.  The  foot- 
steps of  my  guide  retreat  along  the  gallery,  down 
the  stairs,  and  so  out  of  hearing. 

There  is  no  sound  in  the  cell  house.  All  is 
silent,  as  the  gray  light  of  morning  steals  through 
the  barred  windows  into  the  corridor  and  through 
the  grated  door  into  my  cell. 

What  next? 
I  do  not  know. 

Suddenly  there  wells  up  within  me  a  feeling 
which  is  no  longer  rage,  it  is  a  great  resistless 
wave  of  sympathy  for  those  poor  fellows  in  that 
Hell  I  have  just  left;  for  those  who  have  ever 
been  there;  for  those  in  danger  of  going  there; 
for  all  the  inmates  of  this  great  city  within  the 
walls — this  great  community  ruled  by  hate — 

251 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

where  wickedness  is  the  expected  thing — where 
love  is  forbidden  and  cast  out. 

Obeying  an  impulse  I  could  not  control  if  I 
would,  I  throw  myself  on  my  knees,  with  my 
arms  on  the  chair  and  my  face  in  my  hands,  and 
pray  to  Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven. 

My  prayer  is  for  wisdom,  for  courage,  for 
strength.  Wisdom  to  determine  my  duty,  cour- 
age to  endeavor,  and  strength  to  persevere. 

May  I  be  an  instrument  in  Thy  hands,  O  God, 
to  help  others  to  see  the  light,  as  Thou  hast  led 
me  to  see  the  light.  And  may  no  impatience, 
prejudice,  or  pride  of  opinion  on  my  part  hinder 
the  service  Thou  hast  given  me  to  do. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

SUNDAY — THE   END 

AFTER  the  emotional  crisis  I  have  just 
passed  through,  I  find  myself  quite  un- 
strung. For  nearly  half  an  hour  I  can 
do  nothing  but  sit,  limp  and  exhausted,  in  the 
chair  and  give  way  to  my  feelings.  On  the  whole, 
this  is  a  relief,  although  it  leaves  me  very  weak 
and  wretched.  At  length,  the  realization  that 
I  must  soon  take  my  place  in  line  for  the  duties 
of  the  early  morning  pulls  me  together;  and  after 
pouring  cool  water  from  the  meager  supply  in  my 
pail  over  my  head  and  face,  rearranging  my 
clothes,  and  draining  to  the  bottom  my  tin  drink- 
ing cup,  I  am  somewhat  refreshed.  Looking  out 
from  my  cell  across  the  corridor  and  through  the 
barred  windows  of  the  outer  wall,  I  find  the 
promise  of  a  bright,  sunny  day;  but  it  gives  me 
no  pleasure.  I  feel  utterly  dull  and  depressed. 
Only  a  few  hours  more  and  I  shall  be  gone  for- 
ever from  this  narrow  cell — back  to  my  own  com- 
fortable home;  but  the  thought  arouses  no  en- 
thusiasm. It  does  not  seem  to  matter  much  in 

253 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

the  sum  of  things  whether  I  go  or  stay.  Nothing 
seems  to  matter  much  except  the  physical  suffer- 
ings of  those  poor  fellows  down  in  the  jail;  and 
at  the  thought  a  bitter  anger  sweeps  over  me 
again. 

After  a  few  moments,  however,  I  once  more 
regain  control  of  myself,  and  wait  patiently  at 
the  door  of  the  cell  for  the  day's  routine  to  begin. 

Before  long  I  hear  in  the  corridor  below  the 
clicking  of  levers  and  the  tread  of  marching  feet. 
A  shiver  goes  through  me  as  I  think  of  the  last 
time  I  heard  such  sounds.  But  those  were  imag- 
inary, these  are  real.  Soon,  bucket  in  hand,  I 
am  once  more  traversing  the  long  gallery  and 
falling  in  line  with  the  rest  of  my  company  at 
the  yard  door.  The  prisoners  whose  faces  I  can 
see  are  eyeing  me  curiously,  and  in  a  vague  way 
I  am  wondering  whether  I  bear  any  outward 
marks  of  the  jail.  I  feel  as  if  I  must  have  some- 
where upon  me  an  unmistakable  stamp  of  it,  which 
may  be  a  disfigurement  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

Sharply  the  Captain  gives  the  signal  and  we 
set  off  on  our  march  down  the  yard.  I  know  it 
is  sunny,  for  I  can  see  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
upon  the  ground,  but  all  things  look  unfamiliar 
and  unreal.  I  go  through  the  usual  motions,  but 
I  am  not  thinking  of  what  I  am  doing,  or  of  any- 
thing else,  for  that  matter.  Everything  seems 
cold,  lifeless,  dead.  Yet  I  am  conscious  of 
making  an  effort  to  do  my  duty  cheerfully.  I 

254 


SUNDAY— THE   END 

have  a  curious  feeling  of  being  two  people  at  once. 
One  going  through  the  regular  routine,  and  the 
other  watching  him  as  he  does  it. 

One  of  my  selves  seems  to  be  at  a  distance 
looking  at  the  other  self  as  he  marches  down  the 
yard,  empties  his  bucket  at  the  sewage  disposal 
building,  and  then,  without  pausing  at  the  stands, 
marches  up  the  yard  again.  There  was  a  gleam 
of  satisfaction  in  my  passive  self  at  the  thought 
that  my  active  self  was  going  to  leave  the  bucket 
behind,  and  that  I  should  never  see  it  again.  But 
that  mild  pleasure  is  denied  me.  Of  course  on 
Sunday  the  buckets  are  needed  in  the  cells,  as  the 
men  are  locked  up  after  chapel  services  for  the 
rest  of  the  day.  I  had  not  thought  of  that. 

On  our  way  back  I  seem  to  be  saying  to  myself, 
"You  poor  fellow!  If  you  were  not  so  dead 
tired,  you'd  march  better."  And  then  I  feel  rather 
indignant  at  myself  for  the  criticism. 

Arrived  back  in  my  cell,  it  seems  to  occur 
vaguely  to  one  of  my  two  selves — I  do  not  know 
which — that  there  is  something  I  have  to  do 
to-day.  Breakfast  of  course.  But  after  that — 
Oh,  yes — the  chapel.  I  am  expected  to  speak. 
I  shake  my  head  and  shut  my  eyes,  feeling  ill  at 
the  thought.  To  speak!  I  feel  upon  my  lips 
the  ghost  of  a  smile  at  the  bare  notion.  How 
absurd  for  any  one  to  think  I  could  do  such  a 
thing ! 

Nevertheless  something  must  be  done.    I  ought 

255 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

to  send  word  to  the  Chaplain  that  I  can't  speak. 
How  can  I  send  it?  I  cannot  think.  Somehow  the 
idea  of  blue  floats  across  my  mind.  Oh,  yesl 
Roger  Landry  and  his  blue  shirt.  I'll  ask  Landry 
to  get  word  to  the  Chaplain. 

Click!  Click!  Click!  Again  the  levers  start. 
Still  in  a  sort  of  a  daze  I  open  my  door,  fall  in 
line  behind  Jack  Bell,  join  Landry  farther  along 
the  gallery,  descend  the  iron  stairs  and  march  to 
the  mess-hall.  Here  the  regular  weekday  ar- 
rangements are  changed.  For  some  reason,  in- 
stead of  turning  to  the  right  as  usual,  we  go  to 
the  left  and  occupy  seats  in  quite  a  different  part 
of  the  hall — on  the  left  of  the  center  aisle  and 
much  farther  back.  The  change  makes  me  feel 
vaguely  uncomfortable. 

I  don't  know  what  there  is  for  breakfast.  I 
believe  that  I  have  eaten  something  or  other,  al- 
though I  am  sure  I  have  not  sampled  the  boot- 
leg. I  wish  I  could  share  my  breakfast — such  as 
it  is — with  those  poor  fellows  in  the  jail.  I  won- 
der if  Number  Two  has  any  water  yet.  But  I 
mustn't  think  of  that. 

Returned  from  breakfast,  Landry  comes  to  my 
cell  to  express  his  interest  and  sympathy;  for  he 
once  had  his  own  dose  of  the  jail.  I  wonder  if 
his  spirit  was  broken.  I  forget  to  ask  him  to  do 
my  errand  to  the  Chaplain.  I  fear  it  is  too  late 
now.  Perhaps  I  can  find  some  way  to  do  it  after 

256 


SUNDAY— THE    END 

I  reach  the  assembly  room;  perhaps  I  can,  when 
called  upon,  explain  briefly  that  I  am  unable  to 
speak;  or  perhaps  after  all  it  would  be  better  to 
bluff  it  out  the  best  way  I  can,  and  let  it  go  at 
that. 

After  this  decision  I  feel  somewhat  better. 
Turning  to  the  locker,  I  find  a  piece  of  paper 
with  the  few  notes  I  scrawled  yesterday  noon. 
I  had  expected  to  revise  and  arrange  them  this 
morning.  I  may  as  well  try  to  fix  the  thing  up 
somehow.  But  I  can  do  nothing  but  stare  help- 
lessly at  the  paper;  my  brain  refuses  to  work.  My 
stupidity  finally  annoys  me  so  much  that  I  shove 
the  piece  of  paper  into  my  pocket,  and  make  up 
my  mind  not  to  bother  any  more  about  the 
matter. 

One  or  two  of  the  trusties,  passing  along  the 
gallery,  stop  to  chat.  They  all  seem  to  look  at 
me  as  one  might  at  a  person  who  has  been  re- 
stored to  life  from  the  dead.  I'm  sure  I  feel 
so.  I  have  always  wondered  how  Dante  must 
have  felt  after  he  had  visited  the  Inferno.  I 
think  I  know  now. 

There  are  footsteps  along  the  corridors  and 
galleries;  it  is  the  noise  made  by  good  Catholics 
returning  from  Mass.  It  seems  that  I  could  have 
gone  myself  had  I  known  of  the  service.  I  am 
sorry  I  did  not;  perhaps  it  would  have  helped  me 
to  forget. 

257 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

Soon  the  summons  to  chapel  comes,  and  in 
single  file  we  march  upstairs  and  into  the  large 
assembly  room,  which  is  on  the  second  story,  im- 
mediately above  the  mess-hall.  Here  our  com- 
pany has  seats  on  the  right  of  the  main  aisle 
about  two-thirds  of  the  way  to  the  platform. 
Row  after  row  of  men  take  their  seats,  until 
the  large  room  is  entirely  filled  with  silent,  motion- 
less, gray  figures.  I  do  not  see  those  sitting 
behind,  I  only  hear  them,  for  like  the  rest  I  stare 
straight  in  front  of  me. 

Then  I  hear  the  sound  of  hand-clapping;  and 
when  I  can  see  without  turning  my  head,  I  join 
in  the  applause  that  greets  the  Chaplain  and  an 
organist  and  quartet  of  singers  from  one  of  the 
Auburn  churches.  As  some  of  them  are  my  per- 
sonal friends,  I  can  not  help  wishing  that  they 
had  not  chosen  this  particular  Sunday  to  sing 
here. 

In  vain  I  try  to  fasten  my  attention  upon  the 
service,  I  can  only  follow  my  own  thoughts.  It 
is  but  one  short  week  since  I  occupied  a  seat  upon 
that  same  platform,  and  that  short  week  has  al- 
tered the  whole  tenor  of  my  life.  It  can  never 
be  the  same  again  that  it  has  been.  Whether  I 
wish  it  or  not,  a  bond  of  union  has  been  forged 
between  these  men  and  me  which  can  never  be 
broken.  I  have  actually  lived  their  life,  even  if 
for  only  a  short  period  of  time;  I  have  been  made 
one  of  the  gray  brotherhood — for  they  have  re- 

258 


SUNDAY— THE    END 

ceived  me  as  a  brother;  and  I  have  realized  their 
sufferings  because  in  a  very  small  degree  I  have 
shared  them. 

But  at  the  present  moment  what  am  I  to  do? 
When  I  am  called  up  to  the  platform,  as  I  soon 
shall  be,  what  shall  I  say  to  these  men?  I  must 
not  speak  of  the  jail;  but  how  can  I  help  speaking 
of  it?  It  is  the  one  thing  that  just  now  dominates 
my  mind. 

The  singing  is  beautiful  and  restful.  I  could 
enjoy  it  were  it  not  for  this  terrible  feeling  of 
oppression  at  my  head  and  heart.  Finally  the 
critical  moment  arrives.  The  Chaplain  advances 
to  the  front  of  the  stage. 

"At  this  point  in  the  service,"  he  says,  "we  are 
to  have  something  of  a  departure  from  the  usual 
order  of  exercises.  Last  Sunday  you  listened  to 
an  address  which  the  Honorable  Thomas  Mott 
Osborne  came  here  to  give  you.  To-day  we  are 
going  to  invite  someone  from  your  midst  to 
speak." 

The  Chaplain  pauses,  then  clears  his  throat  and 
says,  "We  have  with  us  here  to-day  a  man  who 
calls  himself  Thomas  Brown." 

With  a  startling  suddenness  that  seems  to 
threaten  the  roof  comes  a  terrific  explosion  of 
hand-clapping,  sounding,  as  a  visitor  afterwards 
described  it,  like  a  million  of  fire  crackers.  I  feel 
my  backbone  tingling  from  end  to  end.  At  the 
same  time  I  have  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to 

259 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

get  away  somewhere  and  hide  myself  from  all 
those  eyes. 

The  Chaplain  continues: 

"His  number  is  33,333x." 

For  some  reason  or  other  this  excites  the  sense 
of  humor  which  lies  so  near  the  surface  here,  and 
loud  laughter  interrupts  the  speaker. 

"I  will  ask  Thomas  Brown  to  come  to  the  plat- 
form." 

With  my  hands  on  the  back  of  the  bench  in 
front,  I  pull  myself  up  onto  my  feet;  and  when 
the  men  see  me  rise  their  frantic  hand-clapping 
begins  again.  As  I  leave  my  seat  and  gain  the 
central  aisle,  the  whole  room  seems  to  rock  back 
and  forth.  I  walk  to  the  front  and  mount  the 
platform.  As  I  do  so,  the  Chaplain,  the  singers 
and  others  sitting  there  rise  and  join  in  the  ap- 
plause. I  am  absurdly,  but  momentarily,  con- 
scious of  my  prison  clothes — the  rough  cotton 
shirt,  gray  trousers  and  heavy  shoes,  as  I  bow  to 
the  people  on  the  stage  and  then  face  the  audience. 

The  applause  subsides  and  every  face  turns 
towards  me  expectantly.  Oh,  for  the  gift  of  the 
tongues  of  men  and  of  angels !  What  an  opportu- 
nity lies  here  before  me !  And  I  feel  helpless  to 
take  advantage  of  it. 

As  I  stand  for  a  moment  looking  over  the  large 
audience,  feeling  unable  to  make  a  start,  my  at- 
tention is  arrested  by  the  face  of  one  of  my  gray 

260 


SUNDAY— THE    END 

brothers.  He  is  an  old  man,  I  do  not  know  him, 
I  am  not  conscious  of  ever  having  seen  him  before, 
but  the  tears  are  rolling  down  his  cheeks  as  he 
sits  looking  up  at  me. 

Then  as  if  a  cloud  were  lifted  from  my  spirit, 
I  suddenly  understand  what  it  all  means.  These 
men  are  not  seeing  me,  they  are  looking  at  Tom 
Brown — the  embodied  spirit  of  the  world's  sym- 
pathy. They  have  felt  the  sternness  of  society — 
the  rigor  of  its  law,  the  iron  hand  of  its  discipline. 
But  now  at  this  moment  many  of  these  men  are 
realizing  for  the  first  time  that  outside  the  walls 
are  those  who  care. 

I  said  to  these  men  last  Sunday  that  I  should 
try  to  "break  down  the  barriers  between  my  soul 
and  the  souls  of  my  brothers."  It  was  necessary 
so  to  endeavor  in  order  to  understand  the  condi- 
tions I  came  to  study.  But  what  has  happened 
is  that  these  men  have  broken  down  their  own 
barriers;  they  have  opened  their  hearts;  they  have 
dignified  and  ennobled  my  errand;  they  have 
transformed  my  personal  quest  for  knowledge  into 
a  vital  message  from  the  great  heart  of  humanity 
in  the  outside  world — a  heart  that,  in  spite  of 
all  that  is  said  and  done  to  the  contrary,  beats  in 
sympathy  with  all  genuine  sorrow,  with  all  honest 
endeavor  for  righteousness. 

Thrilling  with  this  revelation  of  the  true  mean- 
ing of  my  own  mission,  lifted  out  of  apathy  and 
discouragement,  I  make  my  speech;  but,  alas,  the 

261 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

words  come  haltingly  and  reflect  but  little  of  the 
warmth  and  exhilaration  in  my  heart. 

When  the  Chaplain  spoke  to  me  about  saying  a  few 
words  to  you  this  morning — words  of  farewell,  because 
here  for  a  time  at  least  we  must  separate — I  did  not 
realize  that  it  was  going  to  be  so  hard.  Probably  I  am 
the  only  man,  in  all  the  years  since  this  prison  was  built, 
to  leave  these  walls  with  regret. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  give  every  word  of  my 
utterly  inadequate  address.  I  was  in  no  physical 
or  mental  condition  to  speak;  my  audience  was 
almost  too  moved  to  hear.  From  a  mere  reading 
of  the  words  that  fell  from  my  lips  no  one  would 
understand  the  situation.  But  the  prisoners  under- 
stood; they  listened  with  emotions  which  few  can 
appreciate  to  my  words  of  greeting  and  farewell 
and  my  prophecy  of  the  new  day  soon  to  dawn 
for  them. 

First  I  spoke  of  the  value  of  my  experience  to 
the  Commission  on  Prison  Reform  as  well  as  to 
me  personally,  for  I  knew  that  they  had  seen  the 
doubts  expressed  in  many  of  the  newspapers  as  to 
the  usefulness  of  my  "experiment."  I  thanked 
the  officers  for  their  cooperation,  and  the  prison- 
ers for  the  way  they  had  received  me. 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  unprepared  for  the  way  in 
which  you  men  have  carried  out  your  part  of  the  bar- 
gain. I  consider  that  the  restraint,  courtesy,  and  loy- 

262 


SUNDAY— THE   END 

alty  to  me  and  to  my  experiment  have  been  very  wonder- 
ful, and  never  shall  I  forget  it.  There  has  not  been  a 
word  or  look  from  beginning  to  end  that  I  would  haVe 
had  otherwise.  You  have  received  me  exactly  as  I  asked 
you  to — as  one  of  yourselves. 

I  believed  that  a  wide  popular  interest  had 
been  aroused,  which  could  not  help  working  for 
good. 

In  fact,  with  the  aid  of  our  friends  the  newspapers, 
we  have  had  considerable  advertising  this  last  week,  you 
and  I.  The  personal  part  of  this  advertising  I  do  not 
like — it  would  be  pleasant  if  I  could  know  that  I  should 
never  again  see  my  name  in  the  newspapers — but  doubt- 
less it  all  works  out  for  good  in  the  long  run.  Certainly 
in  this  case  I  believe  that  more  people  have  been  thinking 
about  the  Prison  System  in  New  York  State  within  the 
last  week  than  any  week  since  Auburn  Prison  was  built ; 
and  while  much  of  that  interest  will  of  course  evaporate, 
for  we  need  not  expect  the  millennium  yet  awhile,  never- 
theless the  ground  has  been  tilled  for  the  work  that  is 
to  come. 

Then  I  dwelt  upon  the  tasks  which  lay  before 
us  to  do — before  them  and  before  me.  It  was 
my  task  to  go  out  in  the  world  and  help  in  the 
fight  against  human  servitude  in  the  prisons,  but 
they  had  a  much  harder  task. 

Your  part  is  the  most  important  of  all.  It  is  just  to 
do  your  plain  duty  here,  day  by  day,  in  the  same  routine; 

263 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

but  accepting  each  new  thing  as  it  comes  along  and 
striving  to  make  of  that  new  thing  a  success.  Men,  it 
is  you  alone  who  must  do  it.  Nobody  else  can. 

So  then  give  to  the  Warden  and  to  all  the  officers  your 
hearty  support;  aid  in  the  endeavor  to  make  this  institu- 
tion all  that  it  should  be,  all  that  it  can  be. 

An  old  poet,  Sir  Richard  Lovelace,  once  wrote : 

"Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage." 

Last  night  perhaps  I  should  not  have  altogether  agreed 
with  Sir  Richard ;  but  of  course  what  he  meant  was  that, 
in  spite  of  all  the  bolts  and  bars  which  men  can  forge, 
the  spirit  is  always  free;  that  you  cannot  imprison.  In 
spite  of  your  own  confinement  here  you  possess  after  all 
the  only  true  liberty  that  there  is  to  be  found  anywhere 
— the  freedom  of  the  spirit;  the  liberty  to  make  your- 
selves new  men,  advancing  day  by  day  toward  the  strength 
and  the  courage  and  the  faith  which  when  you  go  out 
from  these  walls  will  enable  you  to  lead  such  a  life  that 
you  will  never  come  back. 

In  explaining  why  I  could  not  go  into  particu- 
lars regarding  any  conclusions  I  may  have  reached 
as  to  the  Prison  System,  I  realized  that  I  was  on 
delicate  ground.  I  was  sorely  tempted  to  relate 
some  of  my  last  night's  experiences  in  the  jail, 
but  I  felt  that  were  I  to  do  so  there  was  no  telling 
what  the  result  might  be.  The  men  were  strangely 
moved  by  the  whole  situation,  and  I  had  the  feel- 
ing that  the  room  contained  a  great  deal  of  ex- 

264 


SUNDAY— THE    END 

plosive  material  that  a  chance  spark  might  ignite. 
So  I  bit  my  lips,  and  forced  myself  away  from 
the  dangerous  topic. 

The  time  has  not  yet  come  for  a  statement  of  any 
particular  conclusions  or  ideas.  My  experience  is  so  new 
— particularly  some  of  it — that  I  can  hardly  be  expected 
just  now  to  see  things  in  their  right  relations.  If  I  were 
to  let  myself  go  and  state  exactly  what  I  do  think  at  the 
present  moment,  I  might  say  some  things  I  should  regret 
later.  So  it  is  better  to  wait  and  allow  the  experience  to 
settle  in  my  mind;  and  as  I  get  farther  away  from  it, 
things  will  assume  their  right  proportions. 

Reiterating  my  belief  in  the  value  of  the  ex- 
periment, I  drew  to  a  conclusion. 

The  time  has  now  come  for  me  to  say  good-bye,  and 
really  I  cannot  trust  my  feelings  to  say  it  as  I  should  like 
to  say  it. 

Believe  me,  I  shall  never  forget  you.  In  my  sleep  at 
night  as  well  as  in  my  waking  hours,  I  shall  hear  in 
imagination  the  tramp  of  your  feet  in  the  yard,  and  see 
the  lines  of  gray  marching  up  and  down. 

And  do  not  forget  me.  Think  of  me  always  as  your 
true  friend.  I  shall  ask  the  privilege  of  being  enrolled 
as  an  honorary  member  of  your  brotherhood. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  could  better  close  my  remarks 
than  by  repeating  to  you  those  noble  lines  which  the  poet 
Longfellow  found  inscribed  on  a  tablet  in  an  old  church- 
yard in  the  Austrian  Tyrol : 

265 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

"Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past;  it  comes  not  back 
again. 

"Wisely  improve  the  Present;  it  is  thine. 

"Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future  without  fear 
and  with  a  manly  heart." 


Halting  and  inadequate  as  are  the  words  of 
my  speech,  I  feel  certain  that  my  audience  under- 
stands me.  Had  I  stood  up  here  and  repeated 
the  alphabet  or  the  dictionary,  I  think  it  would 
have  been  the  same.  The  men  are  going  far  be- 
hind the  words;  they  are  looking  into  my  soul 
and  I  into  theirs. 

I  have  come  among  them,  worn  their  uniform, 
marched  in  their  lines,  sat  with  them  at  meals 
and  gone  to  the  cells  with  them  at  night;  for  a 
week  I  have  been  literally  one  of  them — even  to 
fourteen  hours  in  the  dark  punishment  cells;  what 
need  therefore  of  words?  It  makes  little  or  no 
difference  what  I  say,  or  how  far  I  fail  to  express 
my  meaning.  They  understand. 

A  feeling  of  renewed  life,  a  sense  of  hope  and 
exhilaration  kindles  within  me  as  I  look  in  their 
faces  and  realize  for  the  first  time  the  full  meas- 
ure of  their  gratitude  and  affection.  I  step  down 
from  the  platform  and  again  take  my  seat  with 
the  basket-shop  company;  receiving  warm  grips 
of  the  hand  from  Stuhlmiller,  Bell,  and  the  others 
as  I  crowd  past  them  to  my  seat  in  the  center. 

266 


SUNDAY— THE   END 

There  ensues  a  long  and  dreary  wait.  In  the 
mess-hall  the  first  ones  in  are  the  first  ones  out; 
but  up  here  in  chapel  the  first  ones  in  are  the  last 
ones  out.  It  is  a  very  tiresome  arrangement  for 
the  earlier  ones;  and  as  we  are  well  beyond  the 
center,  the  delay  seems  interminable.  Over  thir- 
teen hundred  men  have  to  march  down  stairs  in 
single  file,  and  that  apparently  takes  a  long 
time. 

However,  it  gives  a  chance  for  my  excitement 
to  calm  down,  and  my  tired  senses  to  get  a  bit 
rested.  So  that  by  the  time  I  have  marched  down 
stairs,  through  the  stone  corridor,  up  the  iron 
stairs  and  along  the  gallery  to  Cell  15,  second 
tier,  north,  north  wing,  I  am  in  a  more  normal 
condition  than  I  have  been  since  yesterday  after- 
noon. 

While  I  am  packing  my  few  belongings  into 
the  small  handbag,  Grant  appears  at  the  door; 
and  as  soon  as  I  am  ready  I  accompany  him  for 
a  last  journey  along  the  gallery,  down  the  iron 
stairs  and  through  the  stone  corridor.  Then  we 
turn  up  the  stairway  leading  to  the  main  office — 
the  stairway  down  which  I  descended  into  prison 
six  days  ago.  At  the  head  of  the  flight  two  light 
taps  on  the  iron  door  bring  the  face  of  the  hall 
keeper  to  the  pane  of  glass  set  in  the  door,  the 
key  grates  in  the  lock  and  the  heavy  barrier  swings 
open.  I  have  passed  the  inner  wall  and  breathe 
more  freely. 

267 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

Arrived  in  the  Warden's  rooms — he  himself  is 
unfortunately  still  away — I  lose  no  time  in  getting 
into  a  tub.  After  a  most  refreshing  bath,  I  dress 
in  my  ordinary  citizen's  clothes  and  am  served 
with  eggs  and  bacon  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  It  is 
real  coffee,  not  bootleg. 

I  do  full  justice  to  the  food  and  drink,  and 
feel  very  sorry  for  any  one  who  has  not  had  the 
experience  of  a  first  meal  out  of  prison.  I  envy 
the  Warden  his  cook  and  his  devoted  attendants. 

After  being  thus  invigorated,  I  gird  up  my  loins 
for  the  next  duty,  and  go  to  measure  arguments 
with  the  Principal  Keeper  in  his  private  office. 
I  begin  by  shaking  hands  with  him  warmly,  for 
I  wish  to  atone  for  any  rudeness  of  last  night  and 
make  him  understand  that  I  have  no  hard  feelings 
toward  him  personally.  Then  I  plunge  at  once 
into  the  subject. 

"P.  K.,  I  don't  wish  to  be  unpleasant,  nor  do 
or  say  anything  I  am  not  fully  justified  in  doing 
or  saying,  but  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that  I  can 
not  go  from  this  place,  leaving  that  poor  sick  boy 
down  in  that  second  cell  in  jail.  There  are  others 
who,  in  my  opinion,  ought  not  to  be  there,  but 
his  is  the  worst  case.  He  should  be  in  the  hos- 
pital, not  in  such  a  damnable  hole  as  that.  He's 
sick,  and  you  are  driving  him  crazy  with  your 
absurd  rules  about  water.  And  I  shall  not — I 
can  not — leave  the  prison  unless  something  is  to 
be  done  about  it." 

268 


SUNDAY— THE    END 

This  and  much  more  I  pour  into  the  patient 
ears  of  the  P.  K.  It  is  written  in  the  veracious 
"Bab  Ballads,"  concerning  Sir  Macklin,  a  clergy- 
man "severe  in  conduct  and  in  conversation," 
that: 

"He  argued  high,  he  argued  low, 
He  also  argued   round   about  him." 

It  is  much  the  same  in  this  case.  My  arguments 
are  many,  and  some  are  based  on  high  moral 
ground  and  others  on  mere  motives  of  self- 
interest.  My  words  flow  easily  enough  now. 

The  P.  K.  takes  refuge  behind  the  official  poli- 
cies. He  disclaims  any  personal  motives — almost 
any  personal  responsibility.  He  seems  to  think 
that  there  is  little  or  no  occasion  for  the  exercise 
of  any  judgment  on  his  part.  A  complaint  comes 
from  an  officer  about  a  prisoner.  There  is  appar- 
ently nothing  for  the  P.  K.  to  do  but  accept  the 
complaint,  take  the  word  of  the  officer  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  punish  the  prisoner.  I  also  get  the 
impression  that  sending  every  offender  to  the  jail 
is  the  most  desirable  form  of  punishment,  as  it 
involves  no  troublesome  discrimination  or  attempt 
at  careful  adjustment;  it  makes  the  thing  so  simple 
and  easy. 

Anything  more  crude,  any  greater  outrage  upon 
justice  and  common  sense  than  the  system  of 
prison  discipline  as  revealed  in  this  illuminating 
discussion,  it  would  be  impossible  to  conceive.  If 

269 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

a  deliberate  attempt  were  to  be  made  to  draft  a 
code  of  punishment  which  should  produce  a  mini- 
mum of  efficacy  and  a  maximum  of  failure  and 
exasperation  among  the  prisoners,  it  could  not 
be  more  skilfully  planned.  One  can  no  longer 
be  surprised  at  the  anomalous  condition  of  things, 
as  revealed  by  the  kind  of  men  I  found  in  the 
jail. 

In  the  midst  of  the  discussion  I  welcome  a 
warm  ally  in  the  Doctor,  who  at  my  request  is 
brought  into  consultation.  He  had  by  no  means 
intended  that  Number  Two  should  be  sent  to  the 
jail  when  discharged  from  the  hospital;  although 
he  states  it  as  a  fact  that  the  boy  was  a  somewhat 
troublesome  and  unruly  patient — a  fact  which  I 
do  not  doubt  in  the  least.  Under  existing  condi- 
tions I  should  think  any  man,  unless  he  were  a 
dolt  or  an  idiot,  would  be  troublesome. 

This  statement  of  the  Doctor's  gives  me  the 
chance  to  utter  a  tirade  against  a  System  which 
has  no  gradation  in  its  punishments.  If  stress 
is  to  be  laid  on  punishment  rather  than  reward, 
there  should  be  at  least  some  approximation  to 
justice,  and  the  punishment  should  bear  some  pro- 
portion to  the  offence.  "You  admit,"  I  say  to 
the  P.  K.,  "that  these  punishment  cells  are  the 
severest  form  of  discipline  that  you  have.  Then 
why,  in  Heaven's  name,  do  you  exhaust  your 
severest  punishment  on  trivial  offences?  If  you 
use  the  jail  with  its  dark  cells  and  bread  and  water 

270 


SUNDAY— THE   END 

for  whispering  in  the  shop,  what  have  you  left 
when  a  man  tries  to  murder  his  keeper?" 

In  reply  the  P.  K.  makes  the  best  showing  he 
can,  but  in  truth  there  is  no  reply.  One  of  the 
things  that  is  most  irritating  about  prison  is  the 
number  of  questions  that  admit  of  no  sensible  ex- 
planation. It  irresistibly  reminds  one  of  the  topsy- 
turvy world  that  Alice  found  in  Wonderland;  and 
of  the  Hatter's  famous  conundrum,  "Why  is  a 
raven  like  a  writing  desk?"  to  which  there  was  no 
answer. 

The  P.  K.,  finding  himself  driven  from  point 
to  point  in  the  argument,  takes  refuge  in  the 
statement  that  complaint  comes  from  the  prison 
department  in  Albany  that  he  doesn't  punish  often 
or  severely  enough.  This  seems  very  extraordi- 
nary. How  in  the  world  can  the  clerks  in  Albany 
judge  of  the  need  of  punishments  in  this  prison, 
concerning  the  inner  workings  of  which  they  know 
absolutely  nothing? 

I  argue,  I  implore,  I  threaten.  The  Doctor 
more  gently  and  diplomatically  seconds  my  ef- 
forts. Finally  the  P.  K.  with  an  air  of  triumph 
brings  out  his  last  and  conclusive  argument. 

"There  is  a  great  deal  in  what  you  say,  gentle- 
men, and  I  should  like  to  oblige  you,  Mr.  Os- 
borne,  but  you  see  this  is  Sunday;  and  you  know 
we  never  let  'em  out  of  jail  on  Sunday." 

The  P.  K.  leans  back  in  his  chair,  evidently 
feeling  that  he  has  used  a  clincher.  Then  I  rise 

271 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

in  wrath.  "Sunday!"  I  exclaim.  "In  Heaven's 
name,  P.  K.,  what  is  Sunday?  Isn't  it  the  Lord's 
Day?  Very  well,  then.  Do  you  mean  to  teU 
us  that  you  actually  think  if  you  take  a  poor  sicW 
boy,  with  an  open  wound  in  his  ear,  out  of  a  close, 
dirty,  vermin-filled,  dark  cell,  where  he  isn't  al- 
lowed to  wash,  and  has  but  three  gills  of  water 
a  day — do  you  mean  to  say  that  to  take  that  sick 
boy  out  of  such  a  detestable  hole  and  put  him 
back  into  the  hospital,  where  the  Doctor  says  he 
belongs — do  you  really  think  that  such  an  act  of 
mercy  would  be  displeasing  to  God?  Do  you 
think  God  approves  of  your  infernal  jail?  Do 
you  think " 

I  break  off,  simply  because  I  haven't  the 
strength  to  continue;  anger  and  disgust,  on  top 
of  all  the  excitements  of  the  last  twenty-four 
hours,  bring  me  to  my  last  ounce  of  endurance. 
Fortunately  the  tide  turns.  The  P.  K.  is  silent 
for  a  few  moments  after  my  last  outburst,  but 
as  I  watch  him  I  see  something  beginning  to  stir, 
a  light  is  dawning  upon  the  official  mind,  a  smile 
of  triumph  announces  a  solution  of  the  difficulty. 

"Why,"  he  gasps,  "that's  true.  I  think  you're 
right.  We  put  'em  in  on  Sunday;  why  shouldn't 
we  take  'em  out?" 

The  great  question  is  solved.  The  P.  K.'s 
brilliant  logic  has  made  it  possible  for  mercy  to 
temper  justice,  and  pleased  at  his  great  discovery 

272 


SUNDAY— THE    END 

he  determines  to  do  the  thing  handsomely  while 
he  is  about  it,  and  let  not  only  one  but  all  the 
prisoners  out  of  the  jail.  To  this  I  have  no  objec- 
tion to  offer.  He  also  generously  accedes  to  my 
desire  to  pay  a  visit  to  these  as  yet  unseen  friends 
of  mine;  and  I  assure  him  that  I  will  not  pose  as 
their  deliverer,  but  simply  give  them  good  advice, 
and  leave  it  for  him  to  take  them  the  news  of 
their  liberation. 

On  this  errand  I  pass  once  more  behind  the 
barriers.  I  descend  the  gloomy  staircase  from 
the  rear  office,  and  traverse  part  of  my  memor- 
able walk  of  last  night — through  the  stone  cor- 
ridor and  down  the  yard  to  the  jail  office.  Here 
the  Captain  in  charge  takes  the  heavy  keys  from 
the  locker  and  opens  the  outer  door.  As  our 
steps  resound  in  the  passage,  I  think  how  each 
of  the  five  prisoners  within  is  listening  and  won- 
dering who  and  what  is  coming. 

The  inner  door  is  unlocked  and  opened,  and 
amid  complete  silence  from  the  occupants  of 
the  other  cells,  Number  Two's  door  is  thrown 
open. 

As  I  have  said,  it  is  a  curious  experience  making 
acquaintance  and  establishing  intimate  relations 
with  people  whom  you  cannot  see ;  but  it  is  equally 
curious  to  see  for  the  first  time  men  with  whose 
voices  and  personalities  you  already  feel  well  ac- 
quainted. Last  night  I  had  the  first  of  these  ex- 
periences, now  I  have  the  other.  One  by  one  the 

273 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

cell  doors  are  opened  and  the  occupants,  un- 
washed and  in  their  dirty  jail  clothes,  are  allowed 
to  step  forward,  shake  me  by  the  hand  and  have 
a  few  words  of  friendly  conversation.  I  tell  them 
I  have  come  to  see  them  face  to  face  before  leav- 
ing the  prison,  to  thank  them  for  their  friendly 
treatment  of  me,  to  renew  my  invitation  to  dine 
when  they  leave,  and  to  talk  briefly  over  the  case 
of  each. 

Number  Two  I  advise  to  apologize  to  the  Doc- 
tor. He  admits  being  troublesome  in  the  hos- 
pital ;  and  it  is  quite  evident  the  poor  fellow  needs 
to  go  back  there.  He  is  a  dark-haired  lad,  with 
a  sweet  voice  and  a  confiding,  boyish  manner  that 
is  very  winning. 

Number  Three  I  advise  to  apologize  to  the 
Captain  of  his  company  and  to  try  to  keep  his 
temper  better  in  the  future.  The  person  who 
called  him  ugly  names,  having  been  sent  to  the 
hospital,  seems  to  have  been  sufficiently  punished. 
To  my  relief  Number  Three  seems  to  be  decidedly 
better  of  his  cold. 

Number  Four  (it  is  needless  to  say  that  my 
heart  warms  toward  the  handsome  young  fellow 
whom  I  greet  as  Joe)  I  advise  to  apologize  to  his 
Captain  for  the  fight  with  Number  Five,  and  to 

be  more  careful  for  the  future.     Toe  is  rather 

•* 

abashed  and  self-conscious  by  daylight,  but  very 
prolific  of  promises.  Methinks  he  doth  protest 
rather  too  much,  and  in  spite  of  his  good  looks, 

274 


SUNDAY—THE    END 

his  eyes  do  not  give  the  direct  glance  that  one 
likes  to  see. 

To  Number  Five  I  give  advice  similar  to  Joe's, 
and  he  engages  to  profit  by  it. 

To  Number  Eight  I  also  urge  an  apology  to 
the  powers  that  be  and  submission  to  the  in- 
evitable. He  is  a  little  harder  to  convince  than 
the  others,  but  we  reach  an  agreement. 

"What  is  the  use,"  I  say  to  all  of  them,  "of 
letting  your  tempers  get  the  better  of  you  when 
it  hurts  nobody  but  yourselves?"  My  preaching 
is  directed  rather  toward  a  cultivation  of  self- 
interest  than  of  lofty  idealism,  but  I  believe  it 
hits  the  mark.  They  none  of  them  admit  the 
justice  of  their  jail  sentences,  and  on  that  point 
I  can  not  argue  with  them.  I  acknowledge  the 
injustice,  but  ask  them  to  face  the  facts.  So  one 
and  all  admit  they  have  been  wrong  and  express 
themselves  ready  to  make  all  amends  for  the 
present  and  try  their  best  for  the  future. 

And  so,  in  a  much  pleasanter  frame  of  mind 
than  when  I  last  left  this  place,  I  retrace  my  steps 
to  the  Warden's  rooms. 

Returning  through  the  back  office  I  shake  hands 
all  around — with  both  officers  and  prisoners — all 
but  one  man.  A  slight,  pale  figure  in  glasses  is 
bending  over  his  desk  in  a  corner  of  the  office. 
He  is  one  of  the  Warden's  stenographers.  Last 
July  I  had  an  extended  conversation  with  him,  at 

275 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

the  Warden's  suggestion,  and  a  more  hopeless 
and  discouraging  proposition  I  never  struck.  He 
is  an  old-timer,  knows  all  the  ropes,  has  been 
through  the  game,  and  has  settled  down  to  hope- 
less cynicism.  He  seems  to  have  no  belief  in 
himself  or  others,  and  I  have  no  doubt  is  utterly 
uninterested  in  my  whole  experience,  and  will  be 
one  of  the  greatest  stumbling  blocks  to  any  at- 
tempted reforms.  He  will  condemn  them  at  the 
outset,  discouraging  others  who  are  willing  to  try. 
This,  at  least,  is  the  impression  I  had  of  him  last 
July  when  the  Warden  persuaded  me  to  talk  with 
him.  Now,  as  he  bends  over  his  desk  with  his 
eyes  on  his  work  I  pass  him  by;  for  he  evidently 
has  no  interest  in  me  and  I  can  not  see  where  I 
can  be  of  any  service  to  him. 

There  remains  now  but  one  more  thing  to  do — 
bid  farewell  to  my  partner,  my  dear  and  loyal 
friend,  Jack  Murphy.  He  has  been  sent  for; 
and,  as  I  reenter  the  Warden's  office,  he  stands 
looking  out  of  the  window. 

"Jack,  old  fellow,  I  couldn't  leave  here  with- 
out saying  good-bye  to  you." 

He  turns,  and  the  tears  are  running  down  his 
cheeks.  As  for  myself  I  have  long  since  got 

beyond  that  stage.  "Oh,  Mr.  Osborne "  he 

begins,  but  I  stop  him. 

"Cut  it  out,  partner,  cut  it  out!  You  mustn't 
meddle  with  my  last  name.  It  has  been  Tom  and 

276 


SUNDAY— THE   END 

Jack  now  since  Wednesday,  and  Tom  and  Jack 
it  must  continue  to  be.  I  am  still  your  partner, 
and  clothes  are  not  going  to  make  any  difference 
with  you  and  me." 

"Oh,  Tom !"  says  the  poor  fellow.  "What  am 
I  going  to  do  now?" 

For  the  first  time  I  fully  realize  how  deep  this 
experience  has  cut  into  the  hearts  of  these  men. 
I  thought  I  already  understood  it,  but  Jack  re- 
veals a  new  depth. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  ask  in  answer. 
"You  are  going  right  ahead  making  baskets  down 
in  the  old  shop.  But  you  are  also  going  to  help 
out  our  Commission.  While  I  am  working  out- 
side, you  will  be  working  inside.  And  together, 
Jack,  we  are  going  to  assist  in  giving  things  a 
good  shaking  up.  You've  got  the  hardest  part 
of  the  work  to  do,  but  I  shall  keep  in  close  touch 
with  you,  and  we  will  often  consult  together.  And 
sometime,  Jack,  some  day  in  the  future  when  the 
right  time  has  come,  you  can  count  upon  me  to 
go  to  the  Governor  for  you." 

At  this  suggestion  of  a  pardon,  I  expect  to  get 
from  Jack  a  quick  word  of  gratitude,  some  sort 
of  indication  that  he  is  conscious  of  having  at- 
tained his  first  step  toward  freedom,  the  interest 
of  a  friend  who  may  be  able  to  secure  fair  con- 
sideration, at  least,  of  an  application  for  pardon. 

To  my  surprise  he  turns  to  me  almost  roughly. 
"Put  that  right  out  of  your  mind,  Tom,"  he  says. 

277 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

"Don't  you  bother  your  head  about  that,  one 
single  minute.  I  am  ready  to  stay  behind  these 
walls  all  my  life  if  I  can  help  you  and  the  Com- 
mission bring  about  some  of  these  reforms  you 
have  in  mind.  That's  all  I  want!" 

I  try  to  answer,  but  there  is  nothing  to  say. 
What  can  one  do  except  to  humble  oneself  before 
such  a  spirit  of  self-sacrifice?  Moreover,  while 
my  whole  being  is  thrilled  with  the  wonder  of  all 
this  new  revelation  of  the  essential  nobility  of 
mankind,  my  physical  condition  is  approaching 
very  near  to  complete  collapse.  Silently  therefore 
I  clasp  Jack's  hand  in  mine,  and  silently  we  stand 
looking  out  of  the  window  while  each  of  us  mas- 
ters his  emotion.  Then  with  a  brief  "Good-bye, 
Jack!"  "Good-bye,  Tom!"  in  the  back  office,  I 
watch  the  heavy  iron  door  close  with  a  clang  be- 
hind him,  as  he  descends  the  iron  staircase  back 
into  the  prison;  and  so  to  his  stone  cage,  four 
feet  by  seven  and  a  half,  in  the  damp  basement 
of  the  north  wing. 

Then,  with  one  last  look  through  the  grated 
window  of  the  back  office,  I  turn  and  make  my 
way  down  the  front  steps  of  the  prison.  The 
guard  at  the  gate  unlocks  and  opens  the  outer 
barrier.  I  am  free. 

No,  not  free.  Bound  evermore  by  ties  that 
can  never  be  broken,  to  my  brothers  here  within 

278 


SUNDAY— THE    END 

the  walls.  My  sentence,  originally  indeterminate, 
is  now  straight  life,  without  commutation  or 
parole. 

It  may  be  of  interest,  as  a  matter  of  record,  to 
append  a  transcript  of  the  official  punishment  re- 
port of  the  five  prisoners  with  whom  I  spent  the 
night  in  the  jail. 


Date 

Reg.  No. 

Name 

When  Received 

Location 

Keeper 

Punished  by 

Oct.  5 

32648 
32812 

3"75 
31342 
32465 

| 

E 

A 

1 
J 

J 

—  L  * 

:NO.  3] 

-D 

[No.  2] 

T 

Dec.  30,  1912 
Mar.  15,  1913 
July  18,  1910 
July  19,  1912 
Sept.  4,  1912 

Yard 
Yard 
State 
State 
Enamel 

H  l 

A.  P.  K.» 

« 

« 
« 
« 

[No.  5] 

[No.  4] 
-W 
[No.  8] 

F  

Pun.  Cell 
Days 

Days 
Forfeited 

Compen- 
sation for- 
feited 

Offense  and  Remarks. 

No.  3 
No.  2 

No.  5 
No.  4 
No.  8 

3  days 
3  days 

2  days 
2  days 
2  days 

lodays 
10  days 

10  days 
10  days 
10  days 

$5.00' 

$5-oo 

$5.00 
$5-oo 
$5.00 

Striking   another    inmate 
while  in  yard. 
Disobeying  orders  by  loud 
talking  in  hospital  after 
being  cautioned. 
Fighting  with  31342.     M  — 
Fighting  with  31175.       J  — 
Disobeying  orders  by  refus- 
ing  to   work  as  told   by 
officer  and  foreman. 

1  The  original  has  the  full  name. 

»  A.  P.  K.  =  Acting  Principal  Keeper. 

1  Considerably  more  than  a  year's  pay. 


CHAPTER   XV 

CUI   BONO? 


February  I,  1914. 


SINCE  the  eventful  week  I  have  attempted 
to  describe  in  the  foregoing  chapters,  I 
have  received  a  large  number  of  letters 
which  throw  light  on  the  Prison  Problem.  Let- 
ters from  the  Auburn  prisoners,  letters  from  men 
in  other  prisons,  letters  from  ex-convicts,  giving 
ideas  based  upon  their  own  experiences,  letters 
from  prison  officials  in  other  states,  expressing 
keen  interest  in  the  results  of  my  experiment, 
letters  from  sympathetic  men  and  women  of  the 
outside  world,  proving  the  existence  of  a  large 
amount  of  sentiment  in  favor  of  a  rational  re- 
form of  our  Prison  System. 

Many  of  these  letters  are  valuable  in  connec- 
tion with  the  broad  question  of  Prison  Reform 
but  have  no  direct  bearing  upon  my  personal  ex- 
periences in  Auburn  Prison;  they  would  there- 
fore be  out  of  place  here.  Others  of  them  do 
deal  directly  with  that  incident,  reflecting  the 

280 


GUI    BONO? 

prisoners'  side  of  the  matter.  A  selection  from 
these  letters  has  a  distinct  place  in  the  story  of 
my  stay  within  the  walls.  If  the  tone  of  some 
of  them  seems  unduly  laudatory,  let  it  be  under- 
stood that  they  have  been  included  not  for  that 
reason,  but  simply  to  enable  us  to  gauge  the  actual 
results  of  the  visit  of  Tom  Brown — that  fortu- 
nate representative  of  the  sympathy  of  the  outer 
world.  These  expressions  of  friendship  and  grati- 
tude should  not  be  considered  as  personal  tributes, 
their  importance  lies  not  in  the  character  of  the 
recipient  but  in  the  state  of  mind  of  the  writers. 
In  other  words,  the  vital  point  of  this  matter, 
as  in  all  others  connected  with  the  Prison  Prob- 
lem, is  this:  After  all  has  been  said  and  done, 
what  manner  of  men  are  these  prisoners?  Are 
they  specimens  of  "the  criminal"  we  have  had 
pictured  to  us  in  so  many  works  on  "Penology"  ? 
Or  are  they  simply  men  from  the  same  stock  as 
the  rest  of  us — some  of  them  degenerate,  some 
mentally  ill  balanced,  some  slaves  to  evil  habits, 
diseased,  sinful,  or  simply  unfortunate — whatever 
you  like — but  still  men?  I  think  these  letters 
may  help  others  to  an  answer  as  they  have  helped 
me. 

A  few  days  after  the  memorable  Sunday  on 
which  I  left  prison,  Warden  Rattigan  found  a 
paper  placed  upon  his  desk.  It  came  from  the 
slight,  pale  man  with  whom  I  had  talked  in  July, 

281 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

the  man  who  struck  me  as  being  such  a  cynic — 
so  discouraged  and  discouraging,  the  one  with 
whom  I  had  not  shaken  hands  upon  leaving,  be- 
cause— Heaven  forgive  me — I  thought  he  had  no 
interest  or  confidence  in  me  or  my  experiment. 

It  seems,  according  to  the  Warden,  that  this 
man  (his  name  is  Richards)  had  at  first  been 
very  sceptical  concerning  my  visit ;  but  he  had,  as 
will  appear,  watched  me  very  carefully;  and,  after 
having  changed  his  own  point  of  view,  was  much 
irritated  by  certain  sarcastic  editorials  in  the  news- 
papers. So  he  applied  to  the  Warden  for  per- 
mission to  write  a  letter  on  the  subject  to  one  of 
the  great  New  York  dailies. 

When  the  Warden  showed  the  letter  to  me  I 
advised  against  its  publication — as  I  cared  for  no 
personal  vindication.  But  I  treasured  the  letter, 
and  Richards  and  I  have  since  become  the  warmest 
of  friends.  Here  is  what  he  wrote  to  the  War- 
den: 

I  think  that  in  justice  to  the  prisoners  in  this  institu- 
tion that  objection  should  be  taken  to  some  of  the  edi- 
torials which  are  being  printed  about  Mr.  Osborne's  ex- 
perience as  a  voluntary  prisoner  in  Auburn  prison.  I 
for  one  desire  to  protest  and  take  exception  against  some 
of  the  editorials  which  appear  in  the  papers — especially  in 
the  Nevr  York  A and  S . 

I  have  only  used  my  privilege  of  letter  writing  on  one 
occasion  during  my  nearly  two  years'  incarceration  here, 
and  I  wish  that  I  could  be  allowed  to  write  to  one  of 

282 


GUI    BONO? 

these  papers  a  letter  setting  forth  ray  exceptions  in  the 
following  strain,  and  I  want  to  assure  you  that  I  mean 
every  word  of  what  I  have  written. 

The  following  is  his  draft  of  the  proposed 
letter  to  the  New  York  paper. 

I  am  one  of  those  whom  society  calls  a  confirmed 
criminal.  I  have  had  the  misfortune  to  be  unable  to 
resist  temptation  on  several  occasions,  with  the  result  that 
I  carry  upon  my  left  sleeve  the  red  disc  of  shame.  But 
I  want  to  say  to  you,  and  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  that 
although  society  looks  upon  me  as  a  creature  unworthy 
of  sympathy,  as  one  whose  life  has  been  a  waste,  as  one 
not  fit  to  associate  with  the  people  at  large,  yet  I  still 
have  left  within  me  a  little  spark  of  gratitude. 

I  have  watched  with  careful  eye  and  keen  interest 
this  self-imposed  imprisonment.  My  cell  was  very  close 
to  Tom  Brown's,  and  at  night  I  could  look  straight 
from  my  cell  into  the  window  opposite  and  see  there  re- 
flected the  cell  of  Tom  Brown,  No.  15  on  the  second  tier, 
and  its  occupant.  I  know  that  everything  he  went 
through  was  real.  I  know  that  there  was  no  fake 
about  his  imprisonment.  And  I  know  this,  that  he 
went  through  a  great  deal  more  hardship  and  mental 
torture  as  a  voluntary  prisoner  than  he  would  had  he 
been  regularly  committed  to  the  prison.  With  his  educa- 
tion and  knowledge  he  would  have  been  put  to  work  in 
a  clerical  capacity,  instead  of  making  baskets,  and  his 
labor  would  not  have  been  so  hard.  His  incarceration 
in  the  cooler  was  real.  I  know  this  for  a  positive  fact. 
I  heard  him  coming  from  the  cooler  early  Sunday  morn- 

283 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

ing  in  his  stocking  feet,  so  as  not  to  wake  up  his  fellow 
prisoners. 

The  editorial  in  the  A —  is  unjust.  It  speaks  of  Jack 
London  and  others  writing  about  prison  conditions.  It 
says  that  the  convicts  in  the  penitentiary  "cannot  get 
out,"  and  that  "they  are  locked  in  at  night."  Granted 
that  all  this  is  what  you  want  to  ridicule  it  to  be,  the 
man  that  wrote  this  editorial  would  be  accused  of  being 
inhuman  if  he  were  to  put  his  dog  through  what  Mr. 
Osborne  went  through  during  his  week  of  imprison- 
ment. 

There  is  one  thing  I  want  to  emphasize,  and  it  is 
this.  Mr.  Osborne  has  seen  with  his  own  eyes,  heard 
with  his  own  ears  and  felt  with  his  own  feelings  just 
what  it  is  to  be  an  outcast,  even  for  so  short  a  time  as  a 
week — just  what  it  is  to  be  deprived  of  your  liberty  for 
even  so  short  a  period,  and  your  editorial  writers  and 
no  one  else  that  has  not  gone  through  the  actual  experi- 
ence are  qualified  to  criticise  his  efforts. 

These  papers  would  not  believe  a  prisoner  who  came 
out  of  prison  and  told  you  of  these  facts;  you  must  be- 
lieve Mr.  Osborne — you  can't  do  otherwise. 

I  want  to  say  that  this  self-sacrifice  is  going  to  do 
much  to  make  better  men  of  us  criminals,  not  only  now 
but  in  the  future  when  we  are  again  thrust  upon  society ; 
and  if  there  was  just  a  little  more  Osbornism  and  a 
little  less  Journalism  the  prisoners  would  have  a  greater 
incentive  to  reform  than  they  now  have. 

I  speak  not  only  for  myself,  but  for  many  other  old 
timers  with  whom  I  have  talked.  I  claim  as  an  old 
timer  and  one  who  knows  what  he  is  talking  about,  as 
I  have  been  through  the  mill  since  childhood,  that  one 

284 


GUI    BONO? 

act  of  kindness  will  do  more  toward  reforming  a  crim- 
inal than  a  thousand  acts  of  cruelty  and  than  all  the 
punishment  that  you  can  inflict. 

Men  will  err,  men  will  fall,  and  men  will  continue 
to  commit  crime,  and  society  must  be  protected.  We 
must  have  prisons;  but  I  claim  that  the  better  way  to 
treat  a  criminal  in  order  to  try  and  reform  him  is  to  use 
a  little  more  kindness  in  our  prisons  and  a  little  less 
punishment  and  cruelty. 

I  don't  want  to  be  misunderstood  in  this  matter.  I 
have  no  favor  to  ask  of  anyone.  I  expect  to  do  my  time 
— all  of  it.  But  I  want  to  take  exception  to  the  insinua- 
tion that  Mr.  Osborne's  stay  was  made  any  softer  by 
the  fact  that  the  editor  of  his  paper  is  Warden  of  Auburn 
Prison.  The  fact  is  that  Warden  Rattigan  was  away 
from  the  prison  during  the  most  of  the  week  of  Mr.  Os- 
borne's imprisonment,  and  I  know  positively  and  from 
my  own  knowledge  that  his  orders  were  to  treat  Tom 
Brown  the  same  as  any  other  convict  in  this  prison;  and 
1,329  men  here  can  testify  that  these  orders  were  carried 
out  to  the  letter. 

If  some  of  these  editorial  writers  could  have  heard 
the  spontaneous  applause  in  our  chapel  when  Mr.  Os- 
borne,  clad  in  the  garb  of  a  convict,  rose  from  his  seat 
and  walked  to  the  platform  to  address  us,  and  could  have 
seen  the  tears  in  the  eyes  of  hardened  rogues,  I  am  sure 
that  they  would  never  treat  this  experiment  in  the  light 
way  they  do.  It  was  really  a  sorrowful  and  heart-rending 
spectacle  and  one  which  will  never  be  forgotten  by  those 
who  witnessed  it.  And  if  they  could  have  witnessed  the 
tears  which  flowed  from  Mr.  Osborne's  eyes  after  he  had 
once  again  put  on  the  clothe  i»f  civilization,  they  would 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

have  been  convinced  that  his  heart  was  almost  breaking 
for  the  men  whom  he  was  leaving  for  a  time. 

I  am  firmly  convinced  that  Mr.  Osborne  is  as  much 
a  friend  of  society  as  he  is  of  the  prisoner — there  is  no 
question  about  that;  that  he  has  at  heart  the  interest  and 
welfare  of  society,  as  well  as  the  interests  of  the  under 
dog,  and  that  his  motives  are  not  inspired  by  any  wholly 
sympathetic  feeling,  but  by  a  feeling  of  brotherly  love 
and  justice  and  the  feelings  of  one  who  believes  in  all 
of  the  words  in  the  little  line  of  the  Lord's  Prayer: 

"Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive  those  who 
trespass  against  us." 

L.  RICHARDS,  No.  31 — . 

I  leave  it  for  any  one  to  judge  whether  the 
writer  of  that  letter  is  a  hopeless  criminal.  Yet 
he  speaks  of  himself  as  an  old-timer,  who  bears 
upon  his  sleeve  that  cruel  symbol  of  a  repeated 
failure  to  make  good — "the  red  disc  of  shame." 

To  gauge  this  one  man's  ability,  his  latent 
power  for  good,  I  add  another  letter  from  him, 
written  at  a  time  when  the  whole  prison  popula- 
tion was  fearful  that  the  new  order  of  things  in 
the  prison  department  of  New  York  State  might 
be  upset  by  the  change  of  governors. 

Auburn    Prison, 

October  20,  1913. 

Mr.  Thomas  Mott  Osborne,  Auburn,  N.  Y. 
My  dear  Sir: 

I  learn  of  your  expected  visit  to  Albany  during  the 
present  week,  and  I  most  earnestly  request  that  if  you 

286 


GUI    BONO? 

take  up  any  of  the  matters  with  reference  to  the  work 
of  your  Commission,  that  you  present  a  plea  of  the 
prisoners  here  for  a  continuance  of  the  work  which  you 
have  started. 

I  have  read  numerous  criticisms  of  your  acts,  most  of 
them  coming  to  the  one  conclusion — that  you  could  not 
during  your  stay  here  undergo  mentally  what  other 
prisoners  were  enduring.  I  know  that  was  not  calculated 
on  by  you;  and  I,  as  well  as  quite  a  number  of  others 
with  whom  I  have  spoken,  fully  understand  and  appre- 
ciate your  motive. 

Were  not  one  of  your  ideas  adopted,  were  not  a  sin- 
gle thing  done  to  better  the  physical  condition  of 
the  prisoners  in  the  penal  institutions  of  the  state,  yet 
you  have  brought  into  our  hearts  and  minds  a  desire  to 
make  better  men  of  ourselves,  to  prove  to  the  world 
that  kindness  and  not  punishment  is  the  reformative 
agency. 

We  wonder  what  there  is  in  us  that  impels  men  to 
take  up  our  cause.  I  have  given  considerable  thought 
to  this  in  my  solitary  moments  at  night,  and  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  there  must  be  some  good  still  left 
in  even  the  most  wretched  and  degenerate,  that  there 
must  be  some  seed  of  righteousness,  some  spirit  of  man- 
hood still  left  which  only  needs  the  proper  nourishment 
to  bring  it  into  life.  Punishment  has  been  tried  for  cen- 
turies, and  has  failed.  The  doctrine  of  kindness  and 
brotherly  feeling  as  set  forth  by  you  will,  I  am  sure, 
succeed ;  and  I  wish  that  you  would  plead  our  cause  and 
lay  before  the  proper  authorities  the  importance  of  con- 
tinuing the  work. 

A  spirit  of  hope  has  sprung  up  in  our  hearts.    Is  this  to 

287 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

be  crushed  and  turned  to  despair?  Are  we  to  see  the 
efforts  of  your  Commission  defeated  at  this  time?  God 
forbid. 

I  do  not  plead  for  myself.  I  plead  for  the  wives  and 
the  innocent  babes  of  some  of  our  unfortunates.  For 
their  sakes,  if  for  no  other  reason,  this  work  should 
continue.  I  know  that  the  prisoners  here  will  show  by 
their  conduct,  not  only  now  but  in  the  future,  that  they 
have  been  influenced  to  do  good  and  to  do  right,  by  the 
efforts  which  you  have  made  and  are  making  in  their 
behalf. 

I  am  one  of  those  dyed  deep  with  crime,  in  the  opinion 
of  society.  I  have  been  in  several  prisons,  but  I  still 
feel  that  I  have  a  chance,  that  there  is  still  hope;  and 
this  feeling  has  been  strengthened  within  the  past  month 
by  your  act  of  self-sacrifice;  and  I  see  around  me  1,300 
other  men  whose  lives  are  worth  something  to  society — 
worth  the  effort  which  your  Commission  is  making  for 
their  uplift. 

Very  truly  yours, 

L.  RICHARDS,  No.  31 — . 

It  may  be  urged  that  Richards  is  a  man  of  very 
considerable  literary  ability,  which  is  obvious,  and 
that  his  case  is  an  exceptional  one. 

Let  us,  therefore,  take  a  man  of  entirely  dif- 
ferent caliber,  of  but  little  education,  one  whose 
experience  has  been  a  rough  one.  Following  is 
a  letter  from  a  man  who  is  as  unlike  Richards 
mentally  and  physically  as  one  man  can  very  well 
be  from  another. 

288 


GUI    BONO? 

*     135  State  St.,  Auburn,  N.  Y. 

Oct.  5,  1913- 
Mr.  Thomas  M.  Osborne. 

Honorable  Sir:  It  affords  me  great  pleasure  to  write 
you  these  few  lines.  I  really  do  not  know  how  to  begin 
to  express  myself  as  I  have  not  got  a  very  good  educa- 
tion. But  I  hope  you  will  understand  that  my  motive  in 
writing  you  this  letter  is  to  congratulate  you  for  your 
good  work.  I  fully  realize  the  fact  that  it  was  no  easy 
task  for  you  to  come  down  here  and  live  here  in  this 
place  for  one  week  as  you  did.  After  hearing  and  seeing 
you  in  the  chapel  Sunday  I  came  to  my  cell  and  got  to 
thinking.  The  outcome  was  that  I  could  not  remember 
ever  being  touched  so  as  I  was  when  I  left  the  chapel 
and  while  sitting  there  hearing  you  talk.  I  fully  realize 
what  a  big  thing  you  have  undertaken.  At  one  time 
I  was  under  the  impression  that  there  was  no  such  a 
thing  as  a  square  man,  but  I  have  changed  my  opinion 
and  I  am  safe  in  saying  that  quite  a  number  of  other  men 
have  also  changed  their  mind  about  that  same  thing. 
****** 

Men  who  love  their  fellow  man  are  very  few.  When 
I  think  of  you  I  am  reminded  of  a  postal  that  I  received 
from  my  brother  not  long  ago,  after  him  not  knowing 
that  I  was  in  prison.  When  he  found  it  out  he  sent  me 
a  postal  and  on  it  were  these  few  words:  "A  friend  is 
one  who  knows  all  about  you  and  likes  you  just  the 
same."  Well,  Mr.  Osborne,  I  leave  here  on  the  2Oth  of 
this  month  and  believe  me — never  again  for  me.  I  have 
played  the  crooked  game  in  every  way  it  can  be  played, 
most  every  kind  of  crooked  game  there  is.  Now  I  am 
done.  It  is  a  fast  and  excitable  game,  but  I  come  to 

289 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

realize  that  it  is  not  living  and  is  bountl  to  come  to  a 
bad  end.  But  I  want  to  say  that  prison  life  did  not 
reform  me,  nor  will  it  reform  any  man,  for  no  man 
learns  good  in  prison.  My  opinion  is  that  the  only 
way  that  a  man  can  be  reformed  is  get  to  his  conscience, 
wake  up  the  man  in  him.  You  are  aware  of  the  fact 
that  the  police  make  many  criminals.  I  don't  believe 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  hardened  criminal.  If  the 
police  were  not  so  anxious  to  send  men  to  prison  there 
would  be  no  so-called  hardened  criminals.  I  know  what 
I  am  talking  about.  There  are  too  many  men  sent  to 
prison  innocently  and  there  will  always  be  so-called 
hardened  criminals  until  that  is  stopped.  I  done  my  first 
bit  innocently.  Believe  me,  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  sit 
in  one  of  those  cells  and  know  in  your  heart  that  you 
are  there  in  the  wrong.  Well  I  wish  I  had  the  paper 
to  write  you  more  for  I  deem  it  a  pleasure  to  write  you. 

Yours  truly, 
JAMES  McCABE,  No.  32. — 

Soon  after  receiving  this  letter  and  before  his 
release,  I  had  an  interview  with  the  writer.  I 
found  him  a  very  frank  and  engaging  person,  a 
crook  by  profession,  with  most  excellent  ideas  on 
the  subject  of  Prison  Reform — which  was  the 
main  topic  of  our  conversation. 

On  the  day  of  his  release  Jim  visited  me  at 
my  office ;  my  first  thought  was  that  he  had  come 
to  strike  me  for  money,  but  I  did  him  injustice. 
He  came  simply  to  ask  my  interest  and  help  for 
a  young  man  who  locked  in  on  his  gallery  and 
in  whom  he  had  become  interested. 

290 


GUI    BONO? 

"Can't  you  do  something  for  him,  Tom,"  he 
urged.  "That  kid's  no  crook.  If  you  can  only 
keep  him  out  of  the  city  he'll  go  straight.  He 
sure  will.  You  see  him  and  have  a  talk  with 
him,  and  see  if  you  don't  think  so." 

That  was  all  Jim  wanted  of  me,  and  at  first 
he  refused  to  take  the  small  loan  I  pressed  upon 
him,  although  the  money  he  received  from  the 
state  would  not  go  very  far  in  New  York  City. 
"I  don't  want  to  take  it,  Tom,"  he  objected,  "and 
I'll  tell  you  why.  You'd  be  giving  me  that  money 
thinking  I  was  going  straight.  Now  I'm  going 
to  try  to  go  straight;  but  you've  no  idea  of  the 
difficulties.  How  am  I  going  to  get  an  honest 
job?  The  cops  all  know  me  well,  they'll  follow 
me  wherever  I  go.  I  can't  enter  a  theater,  I 
can't  get  on  to  a  street  car.  If  anything  happens 
I'll  be  one  of  the  first  men  the  coppers'll  be  after. 
How  much  of  a  chance  have  I  to  get  an  honest 
job  ?  Now,  if  I  take  your  money  and  then  didn't 
go  straight  I  should  feel  like  the  devil." 

"Jim,"  said  I,  "you'll  take  that  money  because 
you  are  going  straight.  I'll  bank  on  you." 

My  confidence  was  not  misplaced.  Jim  went 
to  New  York  and,  having  the  luck  to  have  a 
home  with  a  good  mother  and  a  brother  who  is 
straight,  Jim  had  time  to  hunt  his  job  until  he 
found  it.  About  two  weeks  after  his  release  Jim 
lunched  with  me  in  New  York,  and  in  the  course 
of  conversation  remarked,  "Say,  Tom,  don't  you 

291 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

think  there's  such  a  thing  as  an  honest  crook?" 
"Sure,  Jim,"  I  answered,  "you're  one." 
A  little  taken  aback  by  this  direct  application, 
Jim  said,  "Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.    I'll  tell 
you  a  case.    There  was  three  of  us  pulled  off  a 
little  piece  of  business  once,  and  afterward  one  of 
those  fellows  wanted  me  to  join  with  him  and 
freeze  out  the  other  fellow.     Now,  that's  what 
I  don't  call  honest,  do  you?" 

"I  certainly  do  not,"  I  said.  "And  now  I'll 
tell  you  what  was  in  my  mind.  I  call  you  an 
honest  crook,  Jim,  because  while  you've  been  a 
crook  you  have  been  square  with  your  pals.  Be- 
cause the  operations  of  your  mind  are  honest, 
you  haven't  tried  to  fool  yourself.  There  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  your  mental  operations. 
You  have  been  simply  traveling  in  the  wrong 
direction.  Make  up  your  mind  to  shift  your 
course,  and  you'll  have  no  trouble  going  straight, 
because  you  are  naturally  an  honest  man." 

Space  forbids  my  going  further  into  Jim's  in- 
teresting history,  but  up  to  the  time  of  writing 
my  diagnosis  seems  to  have  been  correct.  Jim 
has  a  good  job,  is  going  straight,  and  just  before 
Christmas  he  said  to  me,  "Tom,  I  never  was  so 
happy  in  my  life !" 

How  many  more  men  like  Jim  are  there  in 
prison?  Are  they  not  worth  saving? 

Jim  said  in  his  letter,  "Prison  life  did  not  re- 
form me,  nor  will  it  reform  any  man."  That  is 

292 


GUI    BONO? 

true;  and  no  m'an  will  find  help  in  prison  for  re- 
forming himself  until  the  conditions  are  greatly 
changed — until  a  system  has  been  established  in 
which  a  man  can  gain  some  sense  of  civic  re- 
sponsibility toward  the  community  in  which  he 
lives.  If  such  a  sense  of  responsibility  could  be 
developed  while  in  prison,  would  it  not  greatly 
help  in  a  man's  conduct  after  his  release? 

The  following  is  not  a  letter,  but  a  typewritten 
statement  which  Grant,  the  Superintendent  of 
Prison  Industries,  found  on  his  desk  the  morning 
after  my  last  day's  talk  in  chapel.  One  of  the 
prisoners  in  Grant's  office,  upon  returning  to  his 
cell,  had  felt  moved  to  write  down  a  description 
of  the  incident.  This  is  it. 

Sunday,  Oct.  5,  1913. 

Truly  the  past  week,  and  to-day  in  particular,  will 
mark  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  Auburn  Prison,  if  indeed, 
it  does  not  in  the  entire  state. 

Mr.  Osborne's  stay  among  us  has  awakened  new 
thoughts  and  higher  ideals  among  the  men  confined  here 
than  any  other  agency  hitherto  tried  or  thought  of. 

His  coming  as  he  did,  precisely  the  same  as  the  most 
lowly  of  malefactors,  and  receiving  no  better  treatment 
than  would  be  accorded  any  others,  has  awakened  feel- 
ings among  the  majority  that  can  hardly  be  credited, 
much  less  described. 

Those  who  in  the  past  week  have  written  articles  in 
the  various  newspapers  ridiculing  Mr.  Osborne's  experi- 

293 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

ment,  would  have  been  put  to  shame  had  they  been 
present  at  the  chapel  services  this  morning. 

Never  in  my  life  before  have  I  witnessed  such  a  scene. 
When  the  Chaplain  invited  Thomas  Brown  to  the  plat- 
form, the  audience  could  hardly  restrain  themselves,  so 
great  was  their  enthusiasm.  It  was  at  least  five  minutes 
before  Mr.  Osborne  could  be  heard,  and  during  his  re- 
marks it  was  about  all  any  of  us  could  do  to  keep  the 
tears  back. 

As  he  ascended  the  platform,  garbed  as  the  rest  of 
the  audience,  minus  his  usual  attire  but  with  the  same 
air  of  determination  and  force  that  has  always  character- 
ized him,  he  was  greeted  by  the  Chaplain  and  some  ladies 
and  gentlemen  from  one  of  the  churches  here;  and  his 
acknowledgment  of  the  greeting  was  exactly  as  courteous 
and  dignified  as  if  he  had  not  just  been  through  one  of 
the  most  memorable  experiences  of  his  life;  and  one  could 
not  help  seeing  the  man  and  not  the  clothes  he  wore. 

His  remarks  were  of  a  character  to  cheer  the  down- 
hearted and  to  urge  to  stronger  endeavor  for  the  right 
those  who  have  made  errors  and  find  the  path  none  too 
easy.  His  advice,  as  usual,  was  listened  to  with  the 
greatest  attention,  and  I  have  never  seen  an  audience  so 
wholly  and  unreservedly  with  a  speaker  as  the  boys 
seemed  to  be  with  him. 

Where  can  you  find  a  man  who  has  the  many  interests 
that  Mr.  Osborne  has,  who  will  give  up  everything  he 
has  been  accustomed  to,  and  risk  his  health,  yes,  you 
might  almost  say  his  life — for  one  never  knows  what 
may  occur  in  an  institution  of  this  kind — for  the  sake  of 
those  who  are  apparently  nothing  to  him?  We  might 
understand  it  better  if  he  were  doing  this  for  some  im- 

294 


GUI    BONO? 

mediate  member  of  his  family,  instead  of  for  strangers 
and  outcasts. 

****** 

Of  one  thing  we  are  sure,  and  that  is  that  Thomas 
Mott  Osborne  will  never  be  forgotten  by  the  inmates 
of  this  prison,  and  I  firmly  believe  that  he  has  been  the 
means  of  inspiring  love  for  himself  in  the  hearts  of  the 
men  here  that  will  never  die.  In  my  own  case,  at  least, 
I  can  speak  with  certainty.  Although  I  have  never 
spoken  to  the  man  in  my  life  and  never  expect  to,  he  has 
certainly  inspired  thoughts  in  my  heart  that  never  were 
there  before;  or  if  they  were,  they  have  been  so  warped 
and  obstructed  by  the  exigencies  of  my  life  for  ten  years 
past  that  I  did  not  realize  that  I  possessed  them  at  all. 

He  is  a  man  who  is  entitled  to  the  best  love  of  every 
human  being  that  comes  within  the  range  of  his  influence, 
whether  they  know  him  personally  or  not.  And  he  has 
won  hearts  to-day  that  nobody  else  on  earth  could. 

In  closing  let  me  repeat  his  last  words  to  us  this  morn- 
ing. I  shall  always  remember  them. 

"Look  not  mournfully  upon  the  past;  it  cannot  return. 

"The  present  is  yours;  improve  it. 

"Fear  not  the  shadowy  future;  approach  it  with  a 
manly  heart." 

This  is  as  I  recall  it.  It  may  possibly  not  be  exact — 
however  the  sense  is  the  same. 

If  Mr.  Osborne  half  realized  what  an  influence  for 
good  his  stay  here  had  been  to  every  single  man  in  the 
place,  I  feel  sure  that  he  would  not  feel  that  his  priva- 
tions and  hardships  of  the  past  week  had  been  in  vain. 
Sincerely, 

E.  O.  I.,  No.  32—. 

295 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

Of  course  it  may  be  urged  with  some  force 
that  such  letters  are  not  conclusive,  for  it  can 
not  be  proved  that  the  writers  have  received  any 
permanent  help;  that  even  those,  like  Jim,  who 
straighten  out  may  get  tired  of  a  virtuous  life  and 
relapse.  That  is  perfectly  true.  For  instance, 
my  lively  jail  friend  in  Cell  Four,  Joe,  in  spite 
of  all  efforts  to  help  him  upon  his  release,  failed 
to  make  good. 

But  such  an  argument  misses  the  point.  The 
important  thing  is  that  these  men  have  good  in 
them — a  statement  that  can  not  be  made  too 
often.  It  is  true  that  they  are  bad — in  spots. 
But  they  are  also  good — in  spots.  And  with  a 
right  system  the  good  could  be  developed  so  as 
to  help  in  driving  out  the  bad.  If  Joe  had  re- 
ceived proper  training  in  prison  he  would  have 
gone  straight  after  he  got  out.  What  I  am  just 
now  trying  to  prove  is  the  existence  of  good — 
and  a  large  measure  of  it. 

Here,  for  instance,  is  a  letter  from  a  man  who 
has  failed  to  go  straight  since  his  release. 

135  State  St.,  Auburn,  N.  Y., 

Sunday,  Oct.  19,  1913. 
Hon.  Thomas  Mott  Osborne,  Auburn,  N.  Y. 

Dear  Sir:  As  this  is  the  last  letter  yours  truly  will 
ever  write  in  a  prison  cell  (that  is,  I  hope  to  God  and 
his  blessed  and  holy  Mother  it  is  the  last),  I  don't  know 
of  a  person  other  than  T.  M.  Osborne  I  would  rather 
write  to.  I  don't  know  of  a  single  case  ever  recorded  in 

296 


GUI   BONO? 

the  U.  S.  if  not  in  the  world  where  fourteen  hundred 
men  left  a  meeting  house — men,  understand,  in  public 
life  who  would  not  stop  at  anything — those  same  men 
left  that  chapel  on  Oct.  5  crying  like  babies!  And  I,  be- 
ing prison  steam-fitter  here,  I  heard  some  very  good 
stories  of  Mr.  Osborne — going  around  to  the  different 
shops  Monday  morning.  It  only  shows  that  with  a  little 
kindness  shown  toward  these  same  men  that  you  could  do 
most  anything  with  them,  and  make  better  men  of  them 
in  the  future.  Before  God,  I  honestly  swear  and  believe 
that  Mr.  Osborne  could  have  taken  that  same  bunch  of 
men  from  Auburn  Prison  that  Sunday,  and  put  them  on 
the  road  to  work  and  99  per  cent,  would  have  made  good 
— and  that's  a  very  good  percentage.  I  have  seen  a  good 
deal  of  this  country — east,  west,  north  and  south — but 
believe  me  Oct.  5  beats  everything.  It  is  a  scene  which 
I  shall  always  remember.  Well,  Mr.  Osborne,  I  ex- 
pected to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  on  Prison  Reform 
but  you  have  been  very  busy,  so  if  I  get  a  chance  some 
time  I'll  drop  in  and  see  you.  I  leave  the  Hotel  Rattigan 
to-morrow  morning  a  wiser  and  better  man. 

Believe  me,  sir,  you  have  the  love  and  respect  of  every 
man  behind  these  prison  walls. 

With  God's  blessing,  a  long  life  and  a  happy  one  to 
you,  dear  sir. 

I  beg  to  remain  yours  truly, 

TOM  CURRAN,  Steamfitter,  Auburn  Prison. 

I  am  going  to  work  Tuesday  morning  at  my  trade  in 
Syracuse. 

The  writer,  Curran  is  not  his  real  name,  also 
refused  to  accept  a  loan  of  money  which  I  of- 

297 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

fered  to  him  so  that  he  could  fit  himself  out  with 
the  tools  of  his  trade.  He  did  not  get  the  job  in 
Syracuse,  but  drifted  into  another  state  to  a  city 
where,  quite  by  chance  three  months  later,  I  ran 
across  him  in  the  county  jail.  The  trouble  with 
Tom  was  the  same  as  in  the  case  of  so  many 
others.  Perfectly  straight  when  sober,  he  could 
not  help  stealing  when  drunk,  and  he  hadn't 
enough  strength  of  mind  to  keep  out  of  saloons. 
How  could  he  have?  What  had  the  prison  done 
to  aid  him  in  developing  strength  of  character? 

The  following  letter  is  a  very  characteristic 
one. 

Auburn,  N.  Y.,  October  6,  1913. 
Mr.  Thomas  M.  Osborne. 

Dear  Sir:  I  trust  you  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  take 
in  writing  you.  But  I  wish  to  thank  you  for  the  inter- 
est you  have  taken  in  the  men  here.  I  know  there  are 
hundreds  of  people  who  have  our  interests  at  heart,  but 
they  imagine  we  are  a  sort  of  strange  animal,  and  treat 
us  as  such.  You  know  if  you  put  a  dog  in  a  cage  for 
five  or  ten  years,  he  will  become  unfit  as  a  pet.  Just  so 
with  us,  we  enter  here  intending  to  become  better  men, 
but  the  treatment  we  receive  from  some  of  those  who  are 
in  immediate  charge  of  us,  causes  us  to  become  embittered 
at  the  world  in  general. 

You  have  done  more  good  in  the  past  few  days  than 
any  other  man  or  woman  interested  in  Prison  Reform. 
You  was  not  ashamed  to  make  yourself  one  of  us  ( if  only 
for  a  week) ;  you  lived  as  we  live,  ate  what  we  ate,  and 
felt  the  iron  hand  of  discipline.  You  came  among  us 

298 


GUI    BONO? 

as  man  to  man  and  I  heartily  thank  you  for  it.  When 
you  stood  in  the  chapel  last  Sunday,  and  talked  to  us  like 
a  father  with  tears  in  your  eyes  and  hardly  able  to  speak, 
I  prayed  as  I  never  prayed  before,  and  asked  God  to  care 
for  you  and  watch  over  you  in  your  coming  struggle  to 
better  conditions  here.  I  know  you  will  meet  with  oppo- 
sition both  here  and  outside.  By  that  I  do  not  mean  the 
Warden,  as  he  has  proven  himself  to  be  a  just  man  in 
every  respect.  I  mean  those  who  are  in  immediate  charge 
of  us.  Some  of  them  are  not  in  accord  with  your  project, 
and  showed  their  disapproval  by  reprimanding  us  for 
greeting  you  as  we  did  last  Sunday.  But  they  are  not 
to  blame  in  one  sense,  for  they  have  been  here  so  long 
their  feelings  have  become  stagnated  and  any  new  move- 
ment appears  to  them  an  intruder.  They  may  be  in  a 
position  to  prevent  us  from  showing  our  feelings  physi- 
cally, but,  thank  God,  they  cannot  control  us  mentally. 
And  just  so  long  as  I  can  think,  so  long  will  I  think  of 
you  as  our  friend. 

You  have  caused  the  men  here  to  see  things  in  a  differ- 
ent light,  and  you  can  be  assured  of  their  utmost  loyalty; 
for  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  man  here  who  would  not 
call  you  his  friend.  And  in  closing  I  wish  to  thank  War- 
den Rattigan  and  Supt.  Riley  for  their  hearty  support  of 
you,  and  hope  to  God  I  may  be  able  some  day  to  thank 
you  in  person.  I  am  now  and  always, 

Loyally  yours, 
FRANK  MILLER,  No,  32 — ,  Auburn  Prison. 

Certain  fundamental  facts  have  never  been 
more  clearly  expressed  than  in  the  first  paragraph 
of  that  letter.  People  "imagine  we  are  a  sort  of 

299 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

strange  animal,  and  treat  us  as  such."  The 
prisoners  "enter  here  intending  to  become  better 
men,"  but  the  treatment  they  receive  "causes  us 
to  become  embittered  at  the  world  in  general." 
There  is  the  Prison  Question  in  a  nutshell. 

Perhaps  it  will  be  remembered  that  each  even- 
ing at  6:40,  while  in  my  cell,  I  heard  a  violin 
played  with  rare  feeling.  Two  weeks  after  my 
visit  ended  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  player 
— a  young  man  who  received  me  with  rather  pain- 
ful embarrassment.  He  had  an  air  of  constraint 
and  reticence  as  I  spoke  of  his  probable  intention 
to  make  use  of  his  talent  after  leaving  prison. 
He  told  me  that  he  was  a  graduate  of  Elmira, 
and  also  of  the  United  States  navy.  I  left  him 
with  the  feeling  that  our  interview  had  not  been 
very  much  of  a  success.  I  was  therefore  the  more 
surprised  to  receive  the  following  letter  a  few 
days  afterward. 

135  State  St.,  Auburn,  N.  Y., 

Oct.  17,  1913. 
Hon.  Thos.  M.  Osborne,  Auburn,  N.  Y. 

Dear  Sir:  Ever  since  Tuesday  I  have  been  trying  to 
muster  up  sufficient  courage  to  write  you.  After  you 
left  and  I  had  finally  regained  control  of  myself  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  I  had  forgotten  to  ask  you  inside;  but 
coming  as  you  did  I  was  completely  taken  by  surprise 
and  forgot  everything,  for  which  I  hope  you  will  par- 
don me. 

300 


GUI    BONO? 

Your  unexpected  visit,  brief  as  it  was,  furnished  me 
much  food  for  thought.  I  can  not  truthfully  say  that  I 
was  not  flattered  by  your  kind  approbation — but  it  has 
not  turned  my  head ;  to  the  contrary,  it  has  caused  me  to 
think  a  bit  harder  than  I  ever  have  before.  As  you 
undoubtedly  know  by  your  brief  experience  here,  the 
subject  which  occupies  a  man's  mind  mostly  is  reflection; 
and  while  a  large  amount  of  my  time  has  been  tempered 
with  reflection,  up  until  now  it  had  never  led  me  into 
this  particular  channel. 

I  have  made  various  plans  as  to  the  course  I  shall 
pursue  in  regaining  all  that  I  have  lost,  when  I  shall  have 
been  released.  But  until  now  I  had  never  considered 
music  as  the  medium  to  accomplishing  this  end.  Perhaps 
I  am  overestimating  my  ability — I  probably  am — but  at 
least  I  mean  to  attempt  it.  When  I  was  sentenced  to 
Elmira  I  cursed  the  day  that  I  ever  learned  to  play ;  after 
I  had  been  there  a  while  I  began  to  miss  my  violin  even 
more  than  the  cigarettes  of  which  I  was  likewise  deprived. 
As  the  time  progressed,  and  I  was  not  getting  any  nearer 
home,  through  non-compliance  with  the  rules,  I  finally 
banished  music  from  my  mind  and  everything  connected 
with  it;  and  from  then  on  I  seemed  to  get  on  better. 

The  period  I  was  in  the  navy  was  too  strenuous  to 
admit  of  anything  but  adapting  myself  to  the  life;  with 
the  exception  of  dodging  ex-convicts  with  which  the 
navy  is  amply  supplied. 

After  I  found  myself  beached  and  began  life  again, 
I  had  completely  forgotten  the  fact  that  I  had  ever 
played  unless  some  one  who  knew  me  of  old  questioned 
me  in  this  regard. 

It  was  not  until  I  came  here  that  I  had  the  desire 

301 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

to  play  at  all,  and  never  while  here  has  that  desire 
framed  into  a  resolve  until  now.  Were  I  never  to  see 
you  again  I  will  always  remember  you,  your  kindness  has 
awakened  long  buried  impulses. 

I  have  gone  into  this  thing  further  than  I  intended; 
my  intention  was  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness  in 
coming  to  see  me.  I  little  thought  when  you  came  into 
the  P.  K.'s  office  to  have  your  record  taken,  the  first  day 
of  your  self-imposed  term,  that  I  should  be  in  your 
thoughts  even  for  a  little  while.  I  knew  you  were  over 
me  when  I  commenced  to  play,  but  never  dreamed  or 
hoped  that  it  would  have  any  more  than  a  passing  effect 
upon  you.  And  when  I  passed  you  at  different  times  I 
avoided  you,  as  I  did  not  think  there  was  anything  about 
me  which  would  attract  your  interest,  knowing  as  I  do 
how  little  consideration  I  deserve  from  anyone. 

Your  kindness  will  never  be  forgotten.  Nothing  can 
happen  during  the  remainder  of  my  term  which  will  af- 
ford me  greater  happiness.  A  happiness  accompanied 
with  a  deep  regret  for  all  that  I  have  neglected  and  op- 
portunities unaccepted,  but  for  which  I  thank  you  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Very  respectfully, 
CHARLES  F.  ABBOTT  (P.  K.'s  Clerk), 

Auburn  Prison,  October  17,  1913. 

I  think  most  schools  and  colleges  might  be  suc- 
cessfully challenged  to  show  a  letter  better  ex- 
pressed or  showing  a  finer  spirit  of  manliness.  In 
fact  one  finds  in  all  these  letters,  and  in  many 
others  not  included  here,  a  peculiar  note  of  clear- 
ness; it  is  to  be  found  also  in  the  talk  of  many 

302 


GUI    BONO? 

of  these  men,  after  you  have  succeeded  in  gaining 
their  confidence;  a  rare  note  of  sincerity  and 
strength — as  if  the  unimportant  hypocrisies  of 
life  had  been  burned  away  in  their  bitter  experi- 
ences. 

In  the  month  of  December,  1913,  immediately 
upon  my  return  from  a  six  weeks'  business  trip 
to  Europe,  I  visited  my  friends  at  the  prison. 
Then  I  found  that  my  shopmate,  Jack  Bell,  had 
been  transferred  to  Clinton  Prison  on  account  of 
his  health.  A  day  or  two  later  I  received  the 
following  acknowledgment  of  some  postcards  I 
had  sent  him. 

Dannemora,  New  York,  Sunday,  Dec.  14,  1913. 
The  Hon.  Thomas  Mott  Osborne. 

Dear  friend:  A  line  to  try  and  explain  to  you  the 
way  I  am  longing  to  again  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
and  speaking  to  you.  After  I  received  your  cards,  which 
were  very  pretty,  it  is  only  necessary  for  me  to  say  here 
that  I  appreciated  your  loving  kindness  of  thinking  to 
send  them.  By  this  time  no  doubt  you  know  of  my 
transfer  from  Auburn  to  Dannemora  which  I  thought 
would  not  be.  But  now  that  it  has,  I  am  pleased  to 
say  all  is  well,  and  find  this  place  better  than  my  previous 
home ;  see !  There  is  only  one  thing  I  regret,  and  that  is 
I'll  not  have  as  many  opportunities  of  seeing  and  talking 
with  you.  For  in  the  short  time  spent  in  your  company 
can  only  say  I  miss  your  presence  more  and  more.  If  in 
the  future  you  will  write  me  a  line  or  so,  such  will  cheer 

303 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

me  in  my  moments  of  thought.  Would  be  pleased  to 
hear  of  your  trip  abroad.  I  hope  you  had  a  more  pleas- 
anter  time  than  while  at  Auburn.  I  can  not  say  in  this 
letter  the  way  I  appreciated  your  cards.  I  sat  for  some 
time  looking  at  them  and  thinking.  I  must  say  in  clos- 
ing that  you  have  my  sincere  wishes  for  a  merry  Christ- 
mas, as  this  is  the  last  letter  till  after  it  has  passed. 
May  you  enjoy  it  and  many  to  come.  Give  Jack  my 
love  and  tell  him  to  be  good. 
Believe  me  to  be  sincerely  yours, 

JOHN  J.  BELL. 

Once  I  heard  Bell  described  as  "just  an  ordi- 
nary fellow  who  likes  to  appear  tough."  Read- 
ing between  the  lines  of  his  letter  I  think  one  can 
discern  the  fine  instincts  of  a  gentleman.  I  thought 
I  recognized  such  when  I  met  him  in  the  basket- 
shop;  this  letter  and  others  I  have  had  from  him 
confirm  that  belief. 

As  I  think  my  narrative  must  have  shown,  there 
is  a  very  soft  spot  in  my  heart  for  my  comrades 
of  the  dark  cells.  It  has  been  a  source  of  deep 
regret  to  me  that  Joe,  Number  Four,  did  not 
make  good  on  his  release;  and  I  hope  that  the 
others  will  have  stronger  purposes  and  better 
results. 

Perhaps  there  may  be  some  interest  in  the 
fate  of  the  poor  lad  in  Cell  Two,  who  tipped  over 
his  water,  and  whose  mental  and  physical  suffer- 
ings added  so  much  to  my  own  distress  during 

3°4 


GUI    BONO? 

that  horrible  night.  Upon  his  release  the  next 
day  he  went  back  to  the  hospital,  where  he  re- 
mained for  some  time.  In  the  month  of  Novem- 
ber, while  I  was  in  Europe,  he  wrote  me  the 
following  letter. 

135  State  St.,  Auburn,  N.  Y., 

Monday,  Nov.  16,  1913. 

My  dear  Friend,  "Number  One": 

How  little  those  words  convey,  and  again  how  much. 
That  I  may  write  them  to  you,  in  the  consciousness  that 
they  mean  all  that  the  words  "dear  friend"  imply,  is  a 
greater  happiness  than  I  dared  hope  for.  I  have  been  in 
"Lunnon"  with  you  for  the  past  two  weeks.  That 
means,  I  have  been  allowing  myself  the  daily  luxury 
of  thinking  of  you,  and  now  the  rare  one  of  writing. 

I  presume  you  are  wondering  if  I  have  been  to  the 
bungaloo  since  your  departure.  No,  sir!  My  promise 
will  hold  good.  In  the  past  I  have  formed  good  resolu- 
tions, not  one  but  many.  Most  of  them  died  in  their 
infancy;  others  lived  long  enough  to  make  me  unhappy. 
This  time,  though,  circumstances  are  different,  and  I  sin- 
cerely hope  that  confidence  placed  in  me  will  not  have 
been  wasted. 

Number  One,  did  you  ever  have  the  blues — real,  dark, 
deep  indigo,  bluey  blues?  I  do  frequently,  and  the  cause 
I  attribute  to  my  ear.  There  is  a  continual  buzzing, 
with  short,  shooting  pains ;  and  the  doctors  have  informed 
me  there  is  no  cure.  I  receive  a  syringe  of  twenty-five 
per  cent,  alcohol  daily,  that  gives  relief  for  the  time  being. 
Well,  Thanksgiving  is  near  at  hand;  so  I  ought  to  be 

305 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

thankful  that  my  other  ear   is  not   performing   like  a 
motor  in  need  of  oil.     Believe  me,  I  am. 

Mr.  Peacock  called  Sunday  (8th)  and  we  had  an 
agreeable  talk.  He  seemed  a  very  pleasant  gentleman, 
and  warned  me  to  walk  a  chalk  line,  so  you  see  I  dare 
not  go  to  jail.  As  you  once  upon  a  time  were  in  prison, 
to  a  certain  extent,  you  realize  what  pleasures  a  visit 
brings.  I  appreciate  yours,  Mr.  P.'s,  and  Mr.  Ratti- 

gan's  kindness  very  much. 

****** 

I  know  all  the  boys  would  wish  to  be  remembered  if 
they  knew  I  were  writing.  I  didn't  tell  them  for  that 
would  mean  fifty  sheets  of  paper,  and  I  hadn't  the  nerve 
to  ask  Mr.  R.  for  that.  But  I  will  say  this:  that  we  all 
want  to  hear,  see,  and  talk  to  our  own  Tom  Brown, 
even  if  he  is  an  ex-convict.  Don't  let  our  English  cousins 
keep  you  over  there  too  long. 

Wishing  you  the  best  of  everything,  I  am,  anxiously 
awaiting  a  letter,  your  Jail  Friend  Number  Two — or 
EDWARD  R.  DAVIS,  No.  32 — . 

Is  it  merely  prejudice  that  makes  me  think  that 
letter  an  exceptionally  charming  one?  Has  that 
boy  no  good  in  him  worth  developing? 

These  letters  are  enough,  I  believe,  to  prove 
my  point.  I  could  give  many  more,  including 
those  from  Dickinson  who,  united  with  his  wife 
and  children,  is  working  honestly  and  happily  at 
his  trade,  earning  money  to  pay  his  obligations 
and  justifying  the  Chaplain's  faith  in  his  charac- 

306 


GUI    BONO? 

ter.  But  there  is  not  space  for  all  the  letters,  so 
I  have  selected  only  those  which  seem  to  show 
most  clearly  what  they  all  show — the  good  that 
is  in  the  hearts  of  all  men,  even  those  who  have 
seemed  to  be  most  evil ;  the  wonderful  possibilities 
which  lie  stored  up,  five  tiers  high,  in  our  prisons. 
Room  must  be  made,  however,  for  one  short 
missive  which  I  found  on  my  desk  the  Sunday  I 
came  out  of  prison.  It  was  anonymous  and  came 
from  New  York  City.  It  reads  as  follows. 

Damn  Fool !     Pity  you  are  not  in  for  twenty  years. 

The  postmark  is  that  of  the  substation  in  the 
city  which  is  nearest  to  a  certain  political  head- 
quarters on  Fourteenth  Street. 

Is  there  any  possible  connection  between  these 
two  facts  ?  Perish  the  thought ! 

One  more  before  closing  this  bundle  of  letters. 
In  the  first  chapter  reference  was  made  to  a  friend 
to  whom  I  first  mentioned  my  plan  of  going  to 
prison.  Soon  after  that  incident  I  received  a 
letter  from  him  enclosing  one  coming  from  an 
imaginary  Bill  Jones  to  the  imaginary  Tom 
Brown.  Its  cleverness,  its  wisdom,  its  underlying 
pathos,  its  witty  characterization  of  social  condi- 
tions and  their  relation  to  the  Prison  Problem 
make  it  a  real  contribution  to  the  discussion. 

307 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

Oct.  9,    1913- 
Hon.  T.  M.  Osborne,  Auburn,  N.  Y. 

My  dear  Friend:  Enclosed  you  will  please  find  a  note 
for  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine,  Tom  Brown  by  name,  who 
was  recently  released  from  Auburn  Prison.  Brown  is 
a  perfectly  good  fellow,  although  you  wouldn't  believe 
so  if  you  were  to  judge  him  by  his  prison  record  alone; 
but  the  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  he  is  a  party  of  de- 
cided views,  possessing  an  individuality  of  his  own;  and 
being  of  this  type  he  was  bound  to  bump  into  things 
while  on  the  inside  looking  out. 

Hand  him  this  note,  do  what  you  can  for  him,  and 
believe  me  as  ever, 

Yours  most  sincerely, 

W  -  N.  R  -  . 


Enclosed  in  this  letter  was  the  following. 

Oct.  9, 


Thomas  Brown,  Esq., 

Auburn,  N.  Y. 
Dear  Tom: 

I  note  by  the  papers  that  you  have  served  your  bit 
and  are  now  out  again  digging  around  for  your  own 
meal  ticket. 

I  also  note  from  the  same  informative  sources,  that 
following  your  usual  proclivity  for  action,  you  started 
something  while  in  the  hash  foundry,  and  consequently 
got  a  fine  run  for  your  money;  the  result  being  that  you 
were  shook  down  for  your  large  and  munificent  earn- 
ings when  discharged,  and  turned  loose  on  a  warm- 
hearted world  without  any  change  in  your  jeans.  But 

30$ 


CUI    BONO? 

why  worry  ?  You've  got  a  good  and  lucrative  trade  now, 
learned  at  the  expense  of  the  state  of  New  York;  and 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  a  good  clever  basket  and 
broom  maker,  besides  becoming  a  competitor  of  the  un- 
happy blind,  who  are  wont  to  follow  this  trade,  can  also 
earn  as  much  as  one  dollar  per  day  weaving  waste-paper 
baskets  for  the  masses. 

I  also  note  that  a  guy  by  the  name  of  Osborne  inter- 
viewed you  after  your  release,  and  that  you  immediately 
put  up  a  howl  about  your  not  liking  the  basic  principles 
which  call  such  joints  as  the  one  which  you  just  quitted 
into  existence;  and  that  as  per  usual  the  foresighted  and 
profound-thinking  editorial  writers  on  several  of  the  big 
New  York  joy-sheets,  which  are  published  as  accessories 
to  the  Sunday  comic  supplements,  immediately  broke  into 
song  and  wanted  to  know  what  in  hell  you  expected  such 
places  to  be. 

But  don't  mind  these  newspaper  stiffs,  Tom.  One  dis- 
covers on  coming  in  personal  contact  with  them  that,  as 
a  rule,  their  writings  are  all  based  on  inexperience  and 
the  writers  may  be  classified  as  belonging  to  the  same  spe- 
cies as  Balaam's  ass.  So  forget  them. 

I  know  this  Osborne  party  personally;  and  take  it 
from  me  that  if  he  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  gas-house  he'd  sure  have  been  some 
rough-neck.  He  is  full  of  pep  and  actually  thinks  for 
himself.  He  also  has  some  peculiar  ideas  relative  to  the 
rights  and  duties  of  humanity,  and  your  experiences  truth- 
fully related  to  him  will  probably  bring  results. 

This  Osborne  guy  is  no  novice  in  prison  dope,  and 
for  years  has  been  beefing  about  society  throwing  away 
its  so-called  "waste  material,"  when  it  might  just  as 

309 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

well  be  turned  into  valuable  by-products  by  an  intelligent 
application  of  the  laws  of  synthetic  social  chemistry. 

It's  his  dope  that  if  some  Dutch  guy  can  beat  it  into 
some  big  industrial  joint,  say  like  those  of  the  United 
States  Steel  Company  or  the  Standard  Oil,  and  by  an 
intelligent  application  of  the  laws  of  nature  change  waste 
material  into  valuable  tjy-products  and  big  dividends, 
that  it  is  up  to  society  to  experiment  a  little  with  its 
social  junk  pile  and  see  what  a  little  of  the  right  kind 
of  chemistry  will  do  to  the  waste  material  to  be  found 
therein. 

I  can  distinctly  remember  when  the  big  blast  furnaces 
around  this  man's  town  were  cussed  right  along  for 
dumping  slag  and  cinders  into  the  local  river  as  waste 
material.  The  aborigines  and  other  natives  hereabouts 
used  to  form  committees  to  cal  on  our  old  college  friend, 
Andy  Carnegie,  and  tell  him  about  it.  Andy,  of  course, 
felt  badly,  but  used  to  come  back  with  a  "What's  biting 
you  people,  anyway?  Nobody  can  eat  this  slag,  can 
they?"  He  had  to  put  his  waste  somewhere,  so  why  not 
use  the  rivers?  Along  about  this  time,  however,  in  blows 
a  Dutch  boy  named  Schwab,  he  studies  the  question  of 
slag  and  other  waste  material  and  its  utilization ;  and  now 
said  slag  is  converted  into  high  grade  cement,  price,  $15 
per  ton,  f.  o.  b.  cars,  Pittsburgh,  Pa. 

Ditto  the  juice  from  the  oil  refineries  which  polluted 
the  rivers  when  I  was  a  kid.  At  present  writing  this 
former  waste  material  that  used  to  wring  hectic  curses 
from  all  the  river  water-users  from  Pittsburgh  to  Cairo 
is  changed  into  thirty-two  separate  compounds;  and  yet 
some  people  actually  think  that  John  D.  stole  his  coin 
when  the  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  he  simply  hired 

310 


GUI    BONO? 

a  guy  to  study  out  plans  for  the  utilization  of  waste 
and  then  beat  the  other  stiffs  to  it  before  they  were 
next. 

Same  way  with  the  slaughter  houses.  When  Charley 
Murphy  was  wiping  his  beezer  on  the  bar  towel  and 
asking,  "Wot'll  youse  guys  have  next?"  most  every 
town  had  an  unlovely  spot  known  as  the  slaughter-house 
district,  and  property  was  valued  in  an  increasing  ratio 
based  on  its  distance  therefrom.  Because  why?  Foul- 
smelling  waste.  But  along  comes  P.  Armour,  Esq., 
studies  the  waste  question  and  says  to  the  slaughter-house 
stiffs,  "Gimme  the  leavings  and  other  things  you  throw 
away  and  I'll  not  only  put  Chicago  on  the  map,  but  I'll 
likewise  build  one  of  the  loveliest  trusts  that  ever  al- 
lowed a  fourth-rate  lawyer  to  bust  into  public  life  by  the 
attacking  of  the  same." 

Well,  that's  what's  wrong  with  this  Osborne  party. 
While  he  lets  other  ginks  browse  around  the  waste-heaps 
of  the  mills  and  factories  seeing  what  can  be  done  with 
their  junk,  he  pokes  around  in  the  social  waste-heap 
trying  to  find  out  if  its  contents  can't  be  converted  into 
something  useful.  One  might  call  him  a  social  engineer ; 
though  as  a  rule  men  of  original  and  new  ideas  are 
usually  called  nuts.  But  be  that  as  it  may,  I  note  that 
Stevenson,  Bell,  Morse,  Edison,  and  a  whole  list  of 
folks  who  have  done  useful  things,  were  at  one  time 
classed  as  being  a  bit  odd  but  harmless. 

As  there  are  no  personal  dividends  in  the  way  of  kale 
coming  to  any  one  who  tries  to  convert  the  social  waste- 
heap  into  something  useful,  the  average  stiff  can't  under- 
stand why  a  guy  with  a  bean  on  him  like  Osborne  should 
want  to  waste  his  good  time  monkeying  with  it,  when  he 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

might  be  more  socially  useful  by  inventing  a  new  tango 
step. 

You  see,  Tom,  society  is  so  constituted  at  present  that 
it  can't  understand  why  any  man  should  want  to  do 
something  that  will  bring  him  no  financial  returns;  and 
yet  this  self-same  society,  that  does  all  of  its  reasoning 
on  a  dollar  and  cents  basis,  can't  understand  why  some 
poor  stiff  interred  in  a  penal  institution  should  register  a 
kick  against  being  compelled  to  work  five,  ten,  or  fifteen 
years  for  nothing. 

Society  also  doesn't  seem  to  realize  that  it  constitutes 
and  creates  its  own  temptation — to  wit,  when  a  gink 
sizes  up  the  class  of  stiffs  big  cities  like  New  York  and 
elsewhere  pick  up  to  run  their  public  business,  and  the 
shake-downs  they  stand  for  from  their  own  duly  chosen 
and  elected  grafters,  the  little  gink  feels  it  to  be  his 
almost  bounden  duty  to  stock  up  a  flossy  silver  quarry 
and  lead  them  to  it. 

Of  course  there  have  been  many  changes  in  prison 
conditions  since  this  Osborne  party  got  fussing  around, 
both  inside  and  out,  but  nevertheless  there  is  still  room 
for  more.  Speaking  of  old  conditions,  I  am  personally 
acquainted  with  a  party  who  could  throw  a  piece  of 
Irish  confetti  up  in  the  air,  and  who,  if  he  didn't  duck, 
would  get  it  on  his  conk  and  be  reminded  of  old  times, 
who  can  most  distinctly  remember  when  the  social  unit 
who  happened  to  land  in  the  waste  heap  lost  his  hair, 
manhood,  and  faith  in  man  and  God  Almighty,  all  inside 
of  twenty-four  hours. 

This  was  in  the  days  of  zebra  clothing,  short  hair,  the 
lock-step,  contract  labor,  and  all  around  soul-murder. 

I  know,  however,  that  there  have  been  many  changes 

312 


CUi    BONO? 

since  then;  so  that  although  your  experience,  while  prov- 
ing that  the  great  and  assinine  waste  of  good  material  is 
still  going  on  in  the  social  mill,  and  therefore  most  heart- 
stirring,  will  never  carry  with  it  the  soul-blighting  memo- 
ries of  one  who  for  fourteen  years  marched  the  lock-step. 

Of  course,  now  that  you  are  free,  you  will  be  in  for 
your  knocks  as  an  ex-con  and  all  that,  but  why  worry? 
You  will  still  have  the  privilege  of  the  free  air  with 
opportunity  always  before  you.  Of  course  you  are 
bound  to  meet  with  that  duty  loving  stiff  who  knowing 
of  your  having  been  in  the  social  waste  heap  believes  in 
advertising  the  fact.  But  again,  why  worry?  If  you 
feel  that  you  can  make  good — why? 

Some  time  I  want  to  tell  you  about  my  old  friend 
O'Hoolihan  and  the  bird.  He  spent  twenty-seven  years 
in  the  place  you  just  left  and  made  one  of  the  greatest 
sacrifices  for  a  little  robin  redbreast  that  I  ever  knew  a 
man  to  make — well,  say  for  the  benefit  of  a  bird. 

Yours  very  truly, 

BILL  JONES, 


CHAPTER   THE    LAST 

THE  BEGINNING 

February  15,  1914. 


"The  vilest  deeds,  like  poison  weeds, 
Bloom  well  in  prison  air; 
It  is  only  what  is  good  in  Man 
That  wastes  and  withers  there." 

SO  wrote  the  poet  of  Reading  Gaol,  whose 
bitter  expiation  has  left  an  enduring  mark 
in  literature.  But  the  lines  do  not  express 
the  whole  truth.  The  Prison  System  does  its  best 
to  crush  all  that  is  strong  and  good,  but  you  can 
not  always  destroy  "that  capability  and  god-like 
reason"  in  man.  Out  of  the  prison  which  man 
has  made  for  his  fellow-man,  this  human  cesspool 
and  breeding  place  of  physical,  mental  and  moral 
disease,  emerge  a  few  noble  souls,  reborn  and 
purified. 

All  about  me  while  I  was  in  prison — that  hard 
and  brutal  place  of  revenge,  I  felt  the  quiet  striv- 
ings of  mighty,  purifying  forces — the  divine  in 
man  struggling  for  expression  and  development. 


THE    BEGINNING 

Give  these  forces  free  play,  and  who  knows  what 
the  result  may  be?  The  spirit  of  God  can  do 
wondrous  things  when  not  thwarted  by  the  im- 
pious hand  of  man. 


It  will  not  be  forgotten,  I  hope,  the  conversa- 
tion Jack  Murphy  and  I  had  about  the  formation 
of  a  Good  Conduct  League  among  the  prisoners. 
My  partner  lost  no  time  in  getting  the  affair 
under  way.  On  the  very  afternoon  of  our  parting 
in  the  Warden's  office  he  wrote  me  the  following 
letter.  It  is  made  public  with  considerable  reluc- 
tance, because  it  seems  like  violating  a  sacred 
confidence.  On  the  other  hand  when  I  spoke  to 
Jack  about  the  matter  his  reply  was  characteristic. 
"Print  it  if  you  want  to,  Tom.  Whatever  I  have 
said  or  written  you  can  do  anything  you  like  with; 
and  especially  if  you  think  it  will  help  the 
League." 

So  here  is  the  letter. 

Sunday,  Oct.  5,  1913. 
My  dear  friend  Tom: 

No  doubt  you  must  think  me  a  great  big  baby  for 
the  way  I  acted  while  in  your  presence  this  afternoon. 
I  had  no  idea  that  you  would  call  upon  me  so  soon  after 
your  release,  although  I  hardly  think  it  would  of  made 
any  difference  whether  it  had  of  been  a  week  from  this 
afternoon;  I  would  have  acted  the  same. 

The  week  that  I  spent  working  by  your  side  was  the 

315 


WITHIN    PRISON   WALLS 

most  pleasant  as  well  as  the  most  profitable  one  of  my 
life,  and  God,  how  I  hated  to  see  you  go. 

But  your  lecture  this  A.  M.  in  chapel  was  the  most 
wonderful  I  ever  heard.  Many  was  the  heart  that  cried 
out  its  thankfulness  to  God  for  sending  you  into  us,  and 
many  a  silent  promise  was  made  to  the  cause  for  which 
you  gave  up  a  week  of  your  happiness  and  freedom  to 
solve. 

And  Tom,  you  have  made  a  new  man  of  me,  and  all 
that  I  ask  and  crave  for  is  the  chance  to  assist  you  in 
your  works.  I  would  willingly  remain  behind  these  "som- 
brous  walls"  for  the  rest  of  my  life  for  this  chance.  I 
know  and  feel  that  I  can  do  good  here,  for  there  are  a 
good  many  in  here  that  knows  me  by  reputation;  and  if 
I  could  only  get  them  under  my  thumb  and  show  them 
that  it  does  not  pay  to  be  a  gangist  or  a  crook,  or  a 
tough  in  or  out  of  prison.  As  I  told  you  to-day,  I  have 
no  self-motive  for  asking  this  request;  for  if  successful 
I  know  and  feel  that  the  reward  which  awaits  you  in 
the  hereafter  mayhap  awaits  me  also;  and  I  am  willing 
to  sacrifice  my  freedom  and  my  all  in  order  to  gain  the 
opportunity  of  once  more  meeting  face  to  face  and  em- 
bracing my  good,  dear  mother  whom  I  know  is  now  in 
Heaven  awaiting  and  praying  for  me. 

To-morrow,  Monday,  Oct.  6,  I  shall  request  one  of 
the  boys  in  the  basket-shop  to  draw  up  a  resolution  pledg- 
ing our  loyalty  to  your  cause;  and  I  shall  ask  only  those 
who  are  sincere  to  sign  it.  After  this  has  been  done  I  am 
going  to  ask  our  Warden  for  permission  to  start  a  Tom 
Brown  League;  its  members  to  be  men  who  have  never 
been  punished.  Tom,  I  hope  that  you  and  your  fellow- 
commissioners  as  well  as  Supt.  Riley  and  Warden  Ratti- 

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THE    BEGINNING 

gan  will  approve  of  this,  for  I  am  sure  that  such  a 
League  will  bring  forth  good  results.  I  have  associated 
so  many  years  among  the  class  of  men  in  this  prison  that 
I  believe  them  to  be  part  of  my  very  being;  and  that  is 
why  I  have  so  much  confidence  in  the  success  of  a  Tom 
Brown  League. 

Trusting  that  God  and  his  blessed  Son  shall  watch 
over  you  and  yours,  and  that  he  may  spare  and  give 
you  and  your  co-workers  strength  to  carry  out  your  plans, 
is  the  sincere  wish  of  one  of  your  boys. 

I  am  sincerely  and  always  will  be, 

JACK  MURPHY,  No.  32177. 


With  some  difficulty  I  persuaded  my  loyal  part- 
ner to  forego  the  name  of  Tom  Brown  in  con- 
nection with  the  League.  Before  my  departure 
for  Europe,  just  a  month  after  the  day  of  my 
release,  Jack  was  able  to  report  a  very  satis- 
factory interview  with  Superintendent  Riley,  who 
had  granted  permission  to  start  the  League. 
Warden  Rattigan's  approval  had  been  already 
secured. 

During  my  six  weeks'  absence  there  was  much 
talk  on  the  subject,  so  far  as  it  was  possible  for 
the  prisoners  to  talk;  and  many  kites  passed  back 
and  forth  among  those  most  interested. 

After  my  return  events  moved  quickly,  and  on 
December  26  a  free  election  was  held  in  the  dif- 
ferent shops  of  the  prison,  to  choose  a  committee 
of  forty-nine  to  determine  the  exact  nature  and 

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WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

organization  of  the  League,  the  general  idea  of 
which  had  been  unanimously  approved  by  show 
of  hands  at  the  conclusion  of  the  chapel  services 
on  the  Sunday  previous. 

Much  interest  was  taken  in  the  election,  and 
there  were  some  very  close  contests. 

Three  days  after  the  election  the  members  of 
the  committee  of  forty-nine  were  brought  to  the 
chapel,  and  the  meeting  called  to  order  by  the 
Warden.  By  unanimous  vote  Thomas  Brown, 
No.  33,333x,  was  made  chairman;  and  then  the 
Warden  and  the  keepers  retired.  For  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  Auburn  Prison  a  body  of 
convicts  were  permitted  a  full  and  free  discussion 
of  their  own  affairs.  The  discussion  was  not 
only  free  but  most  interesting,  as  the  committee 
contained  men  of  all  kinds,  sentenced  for  all  sorts 
of  offenses — first,  second  and  third  termers. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  go  into  details  concern- 
ing the  Mutual  Welfare  League  of  Auburn 
Prison;  that  is  another  story.  It  is  enough  to 
say  that  the  by-laws  of  the  League  were  care- 
fully formulated  by  a  subcommittee  of  twelve; 
and  after  full  discussion  in  the  committee  of 
forty-nine  were  reported  by  that  committee  to 
the  whole  body  of  prisoners  on  January  1 1  and 
unanimously  adopted.  On  February  12  the  first 
meeting  of  the  League  was  held. 

Let  me  try  to  describe  it. 

It  is  the  afternoon  of  Lincoln's  Birthday.    Once 


THE    BEGINNING 

again  I  am  standing  on  the  stage  of  the  assembly 
room  of  Auburn  Prison,  but  how  different  is  thr 
scene  before  me.  Busy  and  willing  hands  have 
transformed  the  dreary  old  place.  The  stage 
has  been  made  into  a  real  stage — properly  boxed 
and  curtained;  the  posts  through  the  room  are 
wreathed  with  colored  papers;  trophies  and 
shields  fill  the  wall  spaces;  the  front  of  the  gal- 
lery is  gaily  decorated.  Everywhere  are  green 
and  white,  the  colors  of  the  League,  symbolic  of 
hope  and  truth.  Painted  on  the  curtain  is  a 
large  shield  with  the  monogram  of  the  League 
and  its  motto,  suggested  by  one  of  the  prisoners, 
"Do  good.  Make  good."  At  the  back  of  the 
stage  over  the  national  flag  a  portrait  of  Lincoln 
smiles  upon  this  celebration  of  a  new  emancipa- 
tion. 

At  about  quarter  past  two  the  tramp  of  men 
is  heard  and  up  the  stairs  and  through  the  door 
come  marching  nearly  1,400  men  (for  all  but 
seventeen  of  the  prisoners  have  joined  the 
League) .  Each  man  stands  proudly  erect  and  on 
his  breast  appears  the  green  and  white  button 
of  the  League,  sign  and  symbol  of  a  new  order 
of  things.  At  the  side  of  the  companies  march 
the  assistant  sergeants-at-arms  and  the  members 
of  the  Board  of  Delegates — the  governing  body 
of  the  League;  and  on  the  coat  of  each  is  dis- 
played a  small  green  and  white  shield — his  badge 
of  authority. 

319 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

No  such  perfect  discipline  has  ever  been  seen 
before  in  Auburn  Prison,  and  yet  there  is  not  a 
guard  or  keeper  present  except  the  new  P.  K.  or 
Deputy  Warden,  who  in  an  unofficial  capacity 
stands  near  the  door,  watching  to  see  how  this 
miracle  is  being  worked.  In  the  usual  place  of 
the  P.  K.  stands  one  of  the  prisoners,  the  newly- 
elected  Sergeant-at-Arms,  whose  keen  eye  and 
forceful,  quiet  manner  stamp  him  as  a  real 
leader  of  men. 

In  perfect  order  company  after  company 
marches  in,  and  as  soon  as  seated  the  men  join 
in  the  general  buzz  of  conversation,  like  any 
other  human  beings  assembled  for  an  entertain- 
ment. There  is  no  disorder,  nothing  but  natural 
life  and  animation. 

I  look  out  over  the  audience — and  my  mind 
turns  back  to  the  day  before  I  entered  prison, 
when  I  spoke  to  the  men  from  this  stage.  What 
is  it  that  has  happened?  What  transformation 
has  taken  place?  It  suddenly  occurs  to  me  that 
this  audience  is  no  longer  gray;  why  did  I  ever 
think  it  so?  "Gray  and  faded  and  prematurely 
old,"  I  had  written  of  that  rigid  audience — each 
man  sitting  dull  and  silent  under  the  eye  of  his 
watchful  keeper,  staring  straight  ahead,  not  dar- 
ing to  turn  his  head  or  to  whisper. 

Now  there  are  no  keepers,  and  each  man  is 
sitting  easily  and  naturally,  laughing  and  chatting 
with  his  neighbor.  There  is  color  in  the  faces 

320 


THE    BEGINNING 

and  life  in  the  eyes.  I  had  never  noticed  before 
the  large  number  of  fine-looking  young  men.  I 
can  hardly  believe  it  is  the  same  gray  audience  I 
spoke  to  less  than  five  short  months  ago.  What 
does  it  all  mean? 

For  this  first  meeting,  the  Executive  Committee 
of  the  League  has  planned  a  violin  and  piano 
recital.  For  two  hours  the  men  listen  attentively 
and  with  many  manifestations  of  pleasure  to  good 
music  by  various  composers  varying  from 
Bach  and  Beethoven  to  Sullivan  and  Johann 
Strauss. 

Between  the  first  and  second  parts  of  the  pro- 
gramme, we  have  an  encouraging  report  from  the 
Secretary  of  the  League,  none  other  than  our 
friend  Richards,  whose  cynical  pessimism  of  last 
July  has  been  replaced  by  an  almost  flamboyant 
optimism  as  he  toils  night  and  day  in  the  service 
of  the  League.  We  have  also  speeches  of  con- 
gratulation and  good  cheer  from  two  other  mem- 
bers of  the  Commission  on  Prison  Reform,  who 
have  come  from  a  distance  to  greet  this  dawn 
of  the  new  era. 

Then  after  the  applause  for  the  last  musical 
number  has  died  away,  the  long  line  of  march 
begins  again.  In  perfect  order  and  without  a 
whisper  after  they  have  fallen  into  line,  the  1,400 
men  march  back  and  shut  themselves  into  their 
cells.  One  of  the  prison  keepers  who  stands  by, 
watching  this  wonderful  exhibition  of  discipline, 

321 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

exclaims  in  profane  amazement,  "Why  in  Hell 
can't  they  do  that  for  us?" 
Why  indeed? 

The  men  have  been  back  in  their  cells  about 
an  hour  when  an  unexpected  test  is  made  of  their 
loyalty  and  self-restraint.  As  I  am  about  to  leave 
the  prison  and  stand  chatting  with  Richards  at 
his  desk  in  the  back  office,  the  electric  lights  begin 
to  flicker  and  die  down. 

Richards  and  I  have  just  been  talking  of  the 
great  success  of  the  League's  first  meeting  and 
the  good  conduct  of  the  men.  "Now  you  will 
have  the  other  side  of  it,"  says  Richards.  "Listen 
and  you  will  hear  the  shouts  and  disorder  that 
always  come  when  the  lights  go  out." 

Dimmer  and  dimmer  grow  the  lights,  while 
Richards  and  I  listen  intently  at  the  window  in  the 
great  iron  door  which  opens  onto  the  gallery  of 
the  north  wing. 

Not  a  sound. 

The  lights  go  entirely  out,  and  still  not  a  sound. 
Not  even  a  cough  comes  from  the  cells  to  disturb 
the  perfect  silence. 

We  remain  about  half  a  minute  in  the  dark, 
listening  at  the  door.  Then  the  lights  begin  to 
show  color,  waver,  grow  lighter,  go  out  altogether 
for  a  second,  and  then  burn  with  a  steady  bright- 
ness. 

I  look  at  Richards.  He  is  paler  than  usual, 
322 


THE    BEGINNING 

but  there  is  a  bright  gleam  in  his  eyes.  "I  would 
not  have  believed  it  possible,"  he  says  impres- 
sively, "such  a  thing  has  never  happened  in  this 
prison  before.  The  men  always  yell  when  the 
lights  go  out.  In  all  my  experience  I  have  never 
known  anything  equal  to  that.  I  don't  under- 
stand it. 

"If  anyone  had  told  me  the  League  could  do 
such  a  thing,"  he  continues,  "I  would  have 
laughed  at  them.  Yet  there  it  is.  I  have  no  fur- 
ther doubts  now  about  our  success." 

As  I  leave  the  prison  again,  there  ring  in  my 
ears  the  questions :  What  has  happened?  What 
does  it  all  mean? 

It  means  just  one  thing — my  friend — for  it  is 
you  now,  you  individually,  to  whom  I  am  speak- 
ing; it  means  that  these  prisoners  are  men — real 
men — your  brethren — and  mine. 

It  means  that  as  they  are  men  they  should  be 
treated  like  men. 

It  means  that  if  you  treat  them  like  beasts  it 
will  be  hard  for  them  to  keep  from  degenerating 
into  beasts.  If  you  treat  them  like  men  you  can 
help  them  to  rise. 

It  means  that  if  you  trust  them  they  will  show 
themselves  worthy  of  trust. 

It  means  that  if  you  place  responsibility  upon 
them  they  will  rise  to  it. 

Perhaps  some  may  think  that  I  am  leaving  out 
323 


of  consideration  the  direct  religious  appeal  that 
can  be  made  to  the  prisoners.  By  no  means.  I 
have  no  intention  of  underrating  the  religious 
appeal.  Under  the  old  depressing  conditions  it  is 
about  the  only  appeal  that  can  be  made.  But  the 
religious  appeal,  to  be  really  effective,  must  be 
based  upon  a  treatment  of  the  prisoner  somewhat 
in  accordance  with  the  precepts  of  religion. 
Preaching  a  religion  of  brotherly  love  to  convicts 
while  you  are  treating  them  upon  a  basis  of  dia- 
bolical hatred  is  a  discouraging  performance. 

Give  the  prisoner  fair  treatment;  discard  your 
System  based  upon  revenge;  build  up  a  new  Sys- 
tem based  upon  a  temporary  exile  of  the  offender 
from  Society  until  he  can  show  himself  worthy 
to  be  granted  a  new  opportunity;  and  then  give 
him  a  chance  to  build  up  his  character  while  in 
retirement  by  free  exercise  of  the  faculties  neces- 
sary for  wise  discrimination  and  right  choice  of 
action.  Then  your  religious  appeal  to  the  prisoner 
will  not  be  flagrantly  contradicted  by  every  sight 
and  sound  about  him. 

In  one  of  the  prisons  in  a  neighboring  state, 
I  saw  hanging  up  in  the  bare,  unsightly  room 
they  called  a  chapel,  a  large  illuminated  text: 
Love  One  Another. 

It  seemed  to  me  I  had  never  before  encoun- 
tered such  terrible,  bitter,  humiliating  sarcasm. 

At  first  sight  it  seems  almost  a  miracle — the 
change  that  is  being  wrought  under  Superintendent 

324 


THE    BEGINNING 

Riley  and  Warden  Rattigan  in  Auburn  Prison. 
But  in  truth  there  is  nothing  really  extraordinary 
about  it — it  is  no  miracle ;  unless  it  be  a  miracle  to 
discard  error  and  to  replace  it  by  truth.  The  re- 
sults of  a  practical  application  of  faith  and  hope 
and  love  often  seem  miraculous,  but  as  a  matter 
of  fact  such  results  are  as  logical  as  any  geometri- 
cal demonstration. 

When  a  man,  treated  like  a  beast,  snarls  and 
bites  you  say,  "This  is  the  conduct  of  an  abnormal 
creature — a  criminal."  When  a  prisoner,  treated 
like  a  man,  nobly  responds  you  cry,  "A  miracle  I" 

What  folly  I  Both  these  things  are  as  natural 
as  two  and  two  making  four. 

The  real  miracle  is  when  men  who  have  been 
treated  for  many  years  like  beasts  persist  in  re- 
taining their  manhood. 

A  prisoner  is  kept  for  half  a  generation  in  con- 
ditions so  terrible  and  degrading  that  the  real 
wonder  is  how  he  has  kept  his  sanity,  and  then  he 
asks  only  for  a  chance  to  show  where  Society  has 
made  a  mistake,  begs  only  for  an  opportunity  to 
be  of  service  to  his  brethren. 

Donald  Lowrie  and  Ed  Morrell,  laying  aside 
their  own  wrongs  and  making  light  of  their  own 
sufferings,  as  they  arouse  not  only  the  state  of 
California  but  the  whole  nation  to  a  sense  of 
responsibility  for  the  shocking  conditions  in  our 
prisons;  Jack  Murphy,  turning  his  back  upon  the 

325 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

chance  of  a  pardon,  asking  nothing  for  himself, 
seeking  only  how  he  can  do  the  most  good  to  his 
fellow-prisoners;  these  are  the  real  miracles; 
when  the  spirit  of  God  thus  works  in  the  hearts 
of  men. 

I  have  talked  with  no  sensible  person  who  pro- 
poses to  sentimentalize  over  the  law-breaker.  Call 
the  prison  by  any  name  you  please,  yet  prisons  of 
some  sort  we  must  have  so  long  as  men  commit 
crime;  and  that  from  present  indications  will  be  for 
many  generations  to  come.  So  far  from  setting 
men  free  from  prison  you  and  I,  sensible  people 
as  I  trust  we  are,  would,  if  we  could  have  our 
own  way,  put  more  men  in  prison  than  are  there 
now;  for  we  should  send  up  all  who  now  escape 
by  the  wiles  of  crooked  lawyers,  and  we  should 
include  the  crooked  lawyers.  But  behind  the 
prison  walls  we  should  relax  the  iron  discipline — 
the  hideous,  degrading,  unsuccessful  system  of 
silence  and  punishment — and  substitute  a  system 
fair  to  all  men,  a  limited  freedom,  and  work  in 
the  open  air. 

A  new  penology  is  growing  up  to  take  the  place 
of  the  old.  The  Honor  System  is  being  tried  in 
many  states  and,  to  the  surprise  of  the  old  ex- 
pert, is  found  practicable.  But  at  Auburn  Prison 
an  experiment  is  in  progress  that  goes  straight  to 
the  very  heart  of  the  Problem.  In  the  minds 

326 


THE    BEGINNING 

of  many  the  reform  of  the  Prison  System  has  been 
accomplished  when  a  cold-hearted,  brutal  auto- 
crat has  been  replaced  by  a  kindly,  benevolent 
autocrat.  But  so  far  as  the  ultimate  success  of 
the  prisoner  is  concerned  there  is  not  much  to 
choose.  The  former  says,  "Do  this,  or  I  will 
punish  you."  The  latter  says,  "Do  this,  and  I  will 
reward  you."  Both  leave  altogether  out  of  sight 
the  fact  that  when  the  man  leaves  the  shelter  of 
the  prison  walls  there  will  be  no  one  either  to 
threaten  punishment  or  offer  reward.  Unless  he 
has  learned  to  do  right  on  his  own  initiative  there 
is  no  security  against  his  return  to  prison. 

"Do  you  know  how  men  feel  when  they  leave 
such  a  place  as  this?"  said  one  of  the  Auburn 
third-termers  to  me,  during  the  League  discus- 
sions. "Well,  I'll  tell  you  how  I  felt  when  I  had 
finished  my  first  term.  I  just  hated  everybody 
and  everything;  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd 
get  even." 

There  spoke  the  spirit  of  the  old  System. 

During  the  same  discussion  another  member  of 
the  committee,  an  Italian,  had  been  listening  with 
the  most  careful  attention  to  all  that  had  been  said 
and  particularly  to  the  assertions  that  when  re- 
sponsibility was  assumed  by  the  prisoners  at  their 
League  meetings  there  must  be  no  fights  or  dis- 
order. Then  when  someone  else  had  said,  "The 
men  must  leave  their  grudges  behind  when  they 

327 


WITHIN    PRISON    WALLS 

come  to  the  meetings  of  the  League,"  Tony  stood 
on  his  feet  to  give  more  effect  to  his  words  and 
spoke  to  this  effect: 

"Yes,  Mr.  Chairman,  the  men  must  leave  their 
grudges  behind.  Let  me  tell  you  some  thing. 

"Two  months  ago  at  Sing  Sing  I  did  have  a 
quarrel  with  my  friend,  and  this  is  what  he  did 
to  me";  and  the  speaker  pointed  to  a  large  scar 
which  disfigures  his  left  cheek.  His  "friend," 
when  Tony  was  lying  asleep  in  the  hospital,  had 
taken  a  razor  and  slit  his  mouth  back  to  the  cheek- 
bone. 

A  hard  glint  of  light  came  into  Tony's  eyes  as 
he  said,  "And  I  have  been  waiting  for  my  revenge 
ever  since.  And  he  is  here — here  in  this  prison." 

Then  the  light  in  the  eyes  softened  and  the 
hard  look  on  the  face  relaxed  as  Tony  added, 
slowly  and  impressively,  "But  now  I  see,  Mr. 
Chairman,  that  I  can  not  have  my  revenge  without 
doing  a  gr'eat  wrong  to  fourteen  hundred  other 
men. 

"So  I  give  it  up.    He  can  go." 

There  spoke  the  prison  spirit  of  the  future. 


(13) 

THE  END 


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